The flower garden

Pink, gold, blue, orange, they all whirl around me, enthralling me, demanding my undivided attention to their dazzling show. I tumble and move and sway and dive and land on the plush grass beneath me, solid, supportive, and squeeze my eyes shut. Vivid red spots dance before me as my chest heaves, gasping in the heady smell of earth.

Sometimes, I just have to do this. I'm sure you get the urge too. A need to move, dance, shake, become a flurry of emotions suspended in time and space, spinning throughout the garden. Here, but not here. Out of mind, out of body. A great expression, a downfall back down to earth. You know what I'm talking about; when all the frustrating nuances of life gather into a menacing ball of fury, a sudden, primal urge seizes us from within and forces us up and out. The fury tumbles away, releasing its destructive grip on our mind, and we experience a brief respite, a chance for clarity.

I open my eyes, and as the light seeps back in, I land on those flowers. The Audrey Hepburn of the garden, she is, my gorgeous marigold. Elegant and exotic and warm and comforting all at once, she smiles at the emotional heap gazing at her. The most brilliant orange of a Monk's shawl, she is utterly captivating against the pure, azure sky. I imagine her roots politely weaving down through the soft soil, meandering around the worms and rocks to gently settle into her place. I think that's what sets her apart - she seems to have this knowing, that yes, I belong here. This here, is my spot. She is comfortable, alive, blooming. Content to wave in the wind and lean towards the sun, allowing its rays to ever so delicately grace her petals. I sigh into the damp earth.

Words are constantly pursuing me, pushing into my mind, talking over one another like a loud Italian family, each member demanding to be heard. What is it like, to simply be - no noise, no words, no incessant pressure building below the surface - calm, grounded, peaceful, as a flower? If only the gentle energy of the marigold could permeate my being, sending roots down into the ground below, settling in to just be.

Instead, I often think of myself as a rose. 'But, they're so beautiful!', I hear you gasp, affronted by the idea that being akin to a rose could somehow be perceived as a negative thing. And you're right, there are many wonderful things to be said about a rose. She holds herself with an alluring, feminine glow, an air of softness surrounding her being. Aphrodite incarnate, it would seem. But - do not be fooled - get too close, and she will prick you, her thorns ever ready to sharply warn those who become too fond. The marigold, our sweet friend, meanwhile, does not suffer this affliction; rather, she greets all who come with a comforting hug, the ever loving embrace of a mother. Our dear rose is not so kind.

I can see you thinking, who the hell looks at a flower and sees the hug of a mother? Well, now, you have successfully gained a peek into my endlessly ruminating mind. I am learning to ponder more on these gentler aspects of life, such as the delights of my garden, for they ease oneself of the burden of a worrisome mind.

So, you see, I return back to nature, for it is nature that returns me back to myself. I look to the garden and see the flowers. The electric, captivating borage. The jasmine that weaves her way around you, drawing you in with her delicate smell. The periwinkle that cheekily grins at you, poking out from its tumbling foliage. All of them - the geraniums, the alyssums, the cornflowers, the petunias - are willing to reveal their unique essence, to those who take a breath & pause to be with them. I watch them unfold & bloom in all their beauty, and allow their soft energy to guide me towards peace.

None seems to hold me so kindly, and hold her as dearly as I, than the marigold. She sees me, smiles at me. The ultimate companion plant, a close camaraderie seems to have formed between us, one that soothes the hurts of an aching soul. Even when the rain falls and the ominous clouds descend, she is there, defying the darkest of days with her pure radiance.

My sweet marigold.