Tipping Tulips
Listen to the quiet voice, lest it start to scream
Sunday meant salsa by the sea. A late afternoon church gathering of sorts that I’ve come to worship. Latin dance lovers sharing sweaty sunsets, spicy shines, and syncing senses.
I grabbed a friend on the way. She swung the door open wide and passed me a hand-picked from her garden, two-bloom bouquet.
One a vibrant pink with stringy white insides looking more like tassels on a pretty dress than petals on a perennial. Bowl of Beauty, descriptively named. The other a fragrant, bright, multi-toned orange Damask rose.
It was Mother's Day. We both have four-pawed kids. We both have moms hundreds of miles away.
I was beyond touched by her gesture and enamored by nature’s majesty, radiating from an emptied honey mustard dressing glass bottle in my hand.
Back home by early evening, dusk descending, I looked around my quaint space and thought how much I’d love to place them on the built-in mantel. In direct line of sight from where I reflect every morning upon waking on nighttime dreams and the happenings of yesterdays.
But the purple tulips were there. Droopy and dry, and still alive. They were a somewhat pricey buy for what felt like a luxury item with a quick expiry date.
Beneath my frozen stare, I thought, “I’ll leave them until they completely fall apart. I want to get my money’s worth.”
I placed the garden flowers on a walnut-stained, scallop-edged, half table, under a tall window. A sweet spot, but always in my peripheral.
The shower was calling. My ritual cleanse, clearing any hardening of the day, and softening the permeable skin to receive what comes forward in the portal of night.
I fed the feline and began prepping my own meal when from the kitchen I heard a clatter. Both startled, the cat and I surveyed the space, finding the purple petals in a puddled mess on the floor.
There’d been no air flow.
The shelf’s too high for the furry boy’s old bones.
The only explanation I could muster was that there was too little water in the plastic cup to keep the tulips upright any longer.
And they timed their tip for that precise moment, on that exact day. Getting my attention with a shout, and starting a symbolic dialogue, should I choose to engage.
When the unconscious speaks
Of course I told the tale to my therapist.
I’m often swept away by the surprise in the synchronicity. By the, “Holy shit I had this thought about essentially wishing away these flowers and then they just fell to the ground out of nowhere shortly after.”
I’m working on working the meanings, and offered that perhaps this was a reminder that for something new to begin, something old must end. Such is the cycle of death and rebirth, that I’m learning if we’re lucky, happens often in a single lifetime.
And I’ve been feeling like one of these cycles is coming ‘round again.
She, however, is a masterful interpreter and gave an alternative, direct, and timely translation.
I had a deep desire.
I wanted to adore the new blooms. I wished for them to adorn the sacred space shared by books on animal messengers and symbols of the world and dreamwork.
I could’ve moved the tulips to another space to live out their remaining days, she suggested, were I not ready to toss them just yet.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t listen to the heart strings.
Instead, I’d denied the hummed yearning.
I got what I wanted. But it came with a crashing.
Blindsided and barefoot or awake and aware
On an early page of “Memories, Dreams, Reflections,” Carl Jung wrote, “Everything in the unconscious seeks outward manifestation, and the personality too desires to evolve out of its unconscious conditions and to experience itself as a whole.”
We all have an unconscious. A vast space where swirls our highest hopes and our fathomless fears. Submerged under a watery surface. Obscured in the thickness of forest. Rightfully, slightly separated from the paved path we walk daily, so that we can function in the human world without drowning or loosing our way.
It’s not untouchable, though. And that’s a good thing, because we can then consciously choose to adventure in and find what it is that seeks manifesting. What is asking to be brought up for air, or out into the light.
This, the act of experiencing ourselves as all that we are. Just because we suppress or deny or banish our desires—doesn’t make them disappear. They’re still a part of us.
And as Jung alludes, what’s suppressed will manifest.
So why not engage with our eyes wide open so that we can take heart-led action and hopefully become more whole in the process.
> The ritual: It’s important to note that not all material in the unconscious should be acted on. But left unnoticed, it’s likely to manifest in undesirable ways, leaving you blindsided and barefoot on the side of the road. Acknowledge your unconscious exists. Can you create space within to hear its quiet whispers? Stepping onto the path of understanding yourself more intimately and seeing more of what makes you whole.
Summer Solstice
Sun rays permeate my pale skin Nothing between us separating, nor protecting from the other My body a fiery sacrifice Indulging in the warmth that I’m starved for As if this will be my last meal I feel this way with you Flaming red Hot to the touch Unable to pull my hand away It hurts knowing it’ll end And if feels far, too, good, to stop now Satiating hunger with pure pleasure Pondering if my stomach will ache with regret A full moon between us now And I’ve alchemized the burn Into a golden glow Both seen and unseen Basking in the luminous light Back home under the shade Where I still feel you But you’re not here I can’t quite tell if this body is mine Or if I’m still in a dream Yet I continue to walk in the world Holding hands with the question And sometimes I see the answer in a passing stranger’s eyes A wordless affirmation That the in-between-worlds-aliveness I feel They, feel, too The brightness dulls As the colors fade Memories of moments Growing fuzzy Do I try to hold on Get back into the warm With you With another Or do I savor Self As I transmute and transform A new base tan A new base line Flaming the fire within Until a new summer comes
May you lust for your true Self as you dance with your deepest desire, Everyday Alchemist. Before you go, pause and give space to the voice within, asking what—in this moment—your heart most yearns for.
Another great writing and artistry!
Sitting in the sun, enjoying another masterpiece… Synchronicity🥰