The wild abandon of tulips entices me to explore my own wildness. Historic Jenkins Estate. photo by anne richardson
Pandemic: A Call to Awaken
Tulips began erupting from their sleek oval bulbs in April. Long stems hugged by thick-winged leaves, one flower per stem. Colors the pastel pink of tongues, the vibrant red of heartbeats, the cream of moonbeams, the yellow of lemon drops held in cupped hands. Tulips surpassing their daffodil-bulb relations with a flourish by month’s end. One completing their laborious cycle, having awakened in late winter with tips barely gracing the earth to now drooping in browned petaled demise, waiting to fall back into dormancy. The other, as their cycle nears completion, throws open their petals with wild abandon, tossing them to the ground one-by-one leaving the stem bewildered, naked for all to see. Daffodils, my heart flower, resonates with the steadfastness that is the root of me. And yet, in slowing my pace during this pandemic time, the allure of tulips is calling to the wild in me. A wild that keeps bobbing to the surface with greater frequency with each passing year as I age.
Another Lesson for Grief’s Apprentice
As I wander and wonder on my walks and connect, no, make that commune, with nature these days, everything seems to have something to say. Not only my Sister Trees, who continue to be a place of refuge, but dogwoods, lilacs, clouds, mushrooms, stellar jays, raindrops, juncos, firs and a glorious tree I encountered for the first time, a dove tree. How can it be in a time of desolation that an awareness of beauty be heightened? How can the waves of sorrow I feel on the wind co-exist with the sensual pleasure I receive in watching an iris open? My mentor Grief is taking this apprentice’s hand and whispering that I don’t need to resolve this discomfort. This tension. It is okay to sit with it.
These clouds reminded me of Mother Ocean and how much I miss her. It inspired a poem that began with these lines: Clouds flowed/in like/tide this/morning/lolling against/sky/whipped froth/expanding/endless/on a shallow/shore…
photo by anne richardson
“In the center of this wildflower/the names of things revolve like planets/and as if pulled by tides/and the gravity of deep space/the names of things move into form/through enormous distance.”
The daffodils' way of receding back into earth is in sharp contrast to the tulips flinging off petals. photo by anne richardson
Noticing What is Gnawing at the Edges
So in this period of quiet, my sense of awe and beauty is expanding as time slows. Communing with nature as spiritual practice, already firmly rooted in my way of being, is seeping deeper into my bone marrow and there are days I wonder where earth ends and I begin. The question, “How does one rewild life?” a prompt taped to my computer at least four years ago, is gnawing at my edges. If this threshold time isn’t an invitation to reevaluate past norms, then what will it take? I honor the reliance of those steadfast daffodils, that part of myself that has served me so well for six decades. There is a sacredness to the communion I have with these bulbs that reside in my own clay body. But now, I am longing to be more infused with tulip energy, to rise up and cast off with abandon constraints I’ve wrapped around myself.
“Do you have a body? Don’t sit on the porch!/Go out and walk in the rain!/...Wake up, wake up!/You’ve slept for millions and millions of years./Why don’t you wake up this morning?”
Grief Invites Me To Not Run Away
Is it only me? I have heard from others that the greens are more verdant this spring, the bird songs more vibrant. People are noticing a shift when they can rest in the quiet. In the past when there have been pandemics and other global crises, often there have followed “awakenings.” Is this such a time? What are you noticing?
There is news footage of wildlife roaming streets and grazing in parks that are free of humans. Inhabitants of cities that haven’t seen mountain ranges or stars in years due to pollution are reconnecting with the larger world. Given this opportunity, Earth seems to be saying, “Yes, I can heal. Don’t let this time of rest go to waste.”
One of my fears is that we will go back to forgetting the gift of seeing the plenitude of stars, hearing the array of bird songs, and witnessing the wildness tiptoeing back in city parks. That being a respectful partner on this planet will not be valued as an alternative to what has been destructive. This I hold in tension knowing there are people suffering due to unemployment, health issues, and other societal woes. Our species, our human species, is suffering too right now. And Grief is asking me to sit with it and not run away. Believe me, I want to run away.
Dove Tree. The luminous bracts that cup the flower fluttered in the wind the day I met this luscious tree. I think if I stood there long enough, these winged angels would have lifted me off the ground and floated me far away, a thought that has wooed me some days. Historic Jenkins Estate. photo by anne richardson.
““When we create an intimate relationship with place, it becomes for us a refuge....Our entire biological structure is designed for engagement with the world.....The senses are the means by which our bond with the world is consummated and made sacramental.”
Seeking Wisdom
The tapestry of my readings these days weaves together nature, grief, hope, belonging, embodiment, soul, and beauty. Many of these are topics from the past that I am returning to as I seem to be craving them. As you can see, it is creating some interesting pondering as I wander on my walks, drift into my dreamworld, write poems. The writings of Sharon Blackie, Francis Weller, Mirabai Starr, John O’Donohue, and the poetry of David Whyte all have the common thread of “belonging to” or “being in conversation with” the land. Of the need to be not only listening to the land, but in a two-way relationship. Interestingly, this was something I was exploring in conjunction with my labyrinth work before the pandemic entered our world.
A Call To Be Co-Creators In the World
I picked up John O’Donohue’s 2003 book, Beauty, The Invisible Embrace, off my bookshelf the other day. His words could have been written for 2020. Each word is soul food, filling my well. In the introduction (pg 7) he says, “When we awaken to the call of beauty, we become aware of new ways of being in the world. We were created to be creators. At its deepest heart, creativity is meant to serve and evoke beauty. When this desire and capacity come alive, new wells spring up in parched ground; difficulty becomes invitation and rather than striving against the grain of our nature, we fall into rhythm with its deepest urgency and passion. The time is now ripe for beauty to surprise and liberate us. Beauty is a free spirit and will not be trapped in the grid of intentionality. In the light of beauty, the strategies of ego melt like a web against a candle…The wonder of the Beautiful is its ability to surprise us.” If ever there felt like a time for Beauty to be called forth by our voices, this is it. Beauty is an archetype. It transcends culture and definitions and eras and eons. (Here is a link to his interview, The Inner Landscape of Beauty, with On Being’s Krista Tippett in 2008 if you would like to hear him speak on the topic.)
Transcendence And Grief
And so, perhaps, that is what Grief has been whispering in my ear, to drop down deep into the discomfort, past the fear, past the sorrow, and to seek Beauty even in the twilight, murky places. Yes, it is outside in those sensual tulips, that divine dove tree, the oceanic clouds spread across the sky. And it is also in the tears that fill my inner wells reflecting broken hearts, saddened lands, friends in need. Beauty transcends. Expands. Opens. Receives. Accepts. Co-creates.
When I rise from the land after this pandemic time I will be a tulip. Watered by the tears of collective sorrow and grief. Nourished by the land that has wooed and loved me. I will fling off my petals after I woo you with my strong voice and call you back to the land. I am wild.
Thank you if you stayed with me to the end. It feels like the nature of my blogs is shifting as the pandemic lengthens. Rawer. And that feels appropriate. After all, we are not going back to “normal.” I have cried writing this. My heart feels heavy. I also feel a release. A joy. I feel oddly nervous publishing these thoughts. Yes, the both/and…and more. And I would love to hear how YOU are doing/being, so please, be in touch.
grateful as always,
anne
For Your Reflection
What are old ways of coping that are still working for you? Try not to judge them as “good or bad.” Just notice how they help you through the day. What is no longer working? And, have you found any new ways of coping? As always, please be gentle and kind as you reflect. (And yes, this is a repeat question! I think it is a helpful one to come back to.)
What is something you have noticed recently in nature that has surprised you? How did it impact you? How did it make you feel?
What is sacred to you at this moment in time?
Do you sense anything is “awakening within?” Perhaps you are too tired/frazzled/overwhelmed to even consider that right now! That is okay.
Check-in with your body. How is your breathing? Can you take as a deep breath as you can in and then out? How does the air feel that you are taking it into your body? If you can step outside, breath in the outdoor air and just notice how your body is responding.
Is there a flower, tree, bird, or other part of nature you relate to? What are the characteristics that attract you? Are there ones you wish you embodied?
Help for Dementia Caregivers
Today, May 7th, would have been my mother’s 93rd birthday. She was a lovely mum. And I am relieved she is not here to cope with Covid-19, especially since she had Alzheimer’s the last few years of her life. It would have been so difficult to keep explaining what was going on.
My heart goes out to families and caregivers that are caring for those with dementia during this time. Here is a link to the Alzheimer’s Association’s website with tips for dementia caregivers.
