To survive is to fight, to split open, to cry, to persevere into the next season of a dream’s life, to detach from the root, the branch, before hope dies, to fall or fly not knowing the outcome until free, that air before the landing or opening of wings…
I am NOT a gardener. Though a gardener I’ve never tried to be… Every natural wonder I’ve ever encountered has been there before me, remnants from previous tenants’ tastes and sculptures wild and free lovingly planted in my path by the Creator Almighty and meant at the time of discovery to be the personal messages needed.
And so it is with my hibiscus pinks, cut down to the ground by the men so they could build a fence more easily. Flowers dear to me for the way they so faithfully after such meaningful moments took turns blooming to mark the milestones in my healing, to commemorate the special blessings, to symbolize with such humble beauty the changing seasons within me.
In the soft, golden morning rising sun, they lift themselves again to greet me. Not defiantly. Just filled with inspiration. An example. A reunion. A smiling. I approach and spend some moments I do not have according to clock and duty. The buds seem from an extra-long green hibernation to be defrosting, thawing. I know what lies inside. The knowing denies mystery but does not anticipation-impede.
My heart does indeed too beat again, my dear friends. They can never cut short our aspiring stories.
Wishies at sunset dust gold upon these realized dreams; In my heart, I gather the bouquets to preserve immortally, for when my soul someday becomes f r e e, I wish to re-sprinkle the hope for others, like wishies in the breeze.
Don’t think my sunny outlook comes from a lifetime of easy; I’ve walked through the dark wood and from depression’s cliff, still find myself sometimes clinging.
I’ve cried my share of flash floods, drowned several lives in the deep, survived decades of verbal abuse, spent my time vowed and banded to Lonely.
I’ve been there and back, having spent most of my life there, but through it all, I kept the marker on where my dreams were buried,
inside a humble chest beneath the patch of wildflowers; I watched the live hues grow as the turpentine slowly stripped my own colors.
But the spirit, like pain, is buried deep, like music in the heart, cannot be reaped by any other, and perhaps the tears upon those wounds are the rain needed to combine with the light of the soul in that long, desolate season,
and we finally figure out how to use that manure to fertilize our strength and desire, and the sprouts from within finally catch fire and rise up to inspire, and the wildflowers burst from that buried chest, breaking the lock from the inside, having had enough of that old non-life.
So when I see all that I now see in each bloom, know I, too, like you, am the seed, the petals, the stem, the story, the roots.