The Flower

I was walking around the burbs with my friend, through somewhat familiar streets. We were laughing and talking and generally just wandering. Where we were going I am not sure. It didn't really matter.

Suddenly, I found myself walking alone. Bewildered, I turned a corner and went up a suburban street full of houses and yards. Some with fences and others without. The sound of dogs echoed and bounced off the walls, slightly muffled by the trees. The hill was on a slight incline, and I felt as though I knew where I was, although I didn’t. I wasn’t afraid, just curious.

People looked up from their gardens as I passed, nodding or saying hello. I smiled, waved and said ‘hi’ back. The wind wisped around my feet and energetically I felt connected to the spirit of the wind as it washed over me. I felt a healing breath carrying any angst out of my body and mind. Spirit was with me, in me, and coursing through me, healing me in this somewhat ordinary street. Nothing extraordinary, just a moment of connection with all which made it extraordinary.

Halfway up the hill a family came out to the path to greet me. A father, mother and two children. They greeted me kindly, like one of their own, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do. The father passed me a small cutting. It was a few shoots of fleshy green stems, small enough to hold in the palm of my hand. The man spoke and said ‘This is yours. You must look after it and care for it, always.’ I looked at it and then at them and thanked them for my gift and went on my way. Nothing seemed strange about that at all. It just was. After I realised, we didn’t even exchange names, although it didn’t seem to matter either.

As I held the cutting in my hand, gently nursing it as I walked. Before too long it turned into the most beautiful flower, almost indescribable. The closest description I could find in my mind was that it looked something like an orchid.

The more I looked at the flower, the more it seemed to shimmer. It was multi-coloured. The centre of it was like an upside-down tear, a bud, folded into itself for protection, petal hugging petal, shielding its contents. A series of fine veins like bloodlines sprung over the surface gently pulsing, issuing forth a fine pinkish-red luminescence that radiated and glowed even more as I held it and appreciated it.

Soft fleshy petals fell gently from the bulbous central form and skirted gently around the edges, swaying in the breeze. Golden-orange almost translucent. The closer I looked, I was entranced, as these petals also had the life force pumping through them. ‘The life force’, I thought to myself. ‘Curiously visible and curiously amazing’. Thoughts of Jack and the Beanstalk sprung loosely to mind as this was the fastest growing beauty I had ever seen. Although it seemed to grow like magic, it was also strangely natural.

I turned the flower around and looked under the skirt and became aware of a greenish second bulbous form, shaped rather like a bird’s head, soft fleshy with veins running through it. The whole thing seemed alive and ever so magical. The colours seemed to shift and change, and the pulsing of the life force had a strength and a fragility that is hard to explain. I held it gently, aware that any form of brutality could damage its soft fleshy petals. The flower in my hand was about the size of a tennis ball and I consciously rested it there not wanting to close my hand into a fist at all.

The wind had subdued into a tiny breath. A breeze that seemed to match the pulsing of the flower. The wind was no threat to the flower as my hands cupped the edges gently and the breath of the wind seemed to traverse around it. The flower was cocooned in my hands in a protective field. I could feel the energy and the warmth in my fingertips and I felt alive, bright and gently strong.

A pulse of light flashed through my body and blinded me for a second. Suddenly, I was at home at my parents’ house. I asked my brother for a small vase. I was thinking of the small silver fairy vase that was about two inches high, but he passed me something even smaller. The silver flute was too tiny for this magnificent flower. We looked, but we could not find the fairy vase. He found me a vase that was plain and flute like and just a little big. Too big.

The flower looked abandoned in the silver vessel. Not so bright and somewhat dwarfed. I couldn’t bear to leave it, and didn’t want to bruise the petals, so I picked it up again and gently nurtured it. Instantly it pulsed and glowed and the life force surged brightly within it. A warm pink glow spread over the palms of my hands.

I looked up and found myself at a party next to the house where the family who gave me the cutting lived. I was inside and there were a lot of people there. I knew some of them, but it was almost like I wasn’t there. Just like I was a spirit observing. I saw uniforms walking in and realised the police had come because it was noisy. Oddly, they were wearing white uniforms with black writing instead of the dark blue I am accustomed to seeing. Who were they? They came in peace and left. We all left, and I found myself walking with a friend again.

At some point my hands felt a little tired and I gave the flower to my friend to look after. When I looked at the flower in his hand, I was shocked, and a rush of worry came upon me. I could see the centre of the flower; the beautiful full reddish core was breaking. The flowers’ pulsing life force started to dull and slow. As I looked, the colours faded and the beautiful central reddish teardrop form had broken away and fallen. I felt heartbroken. I remembered the words of the man who gave it to me. The father with his family I had met earlier. ‘This is yours. You must look after it and care for it, always.' The penny started to drop.

I looked up and my friend was gone. I was alone again. I went looking for him and calling out for him. He was nowhere to be found. I felt alone, slightly worried. I had no idea where I was or where I was going. I smiled when I realised, I was more worried about my flower.

I held the flower again and tried to nurture it back to life. Now I knew I had to really take care of it and not let it die. If I could just give it the love and care it needed it would regenerate, but I must not let it die. This was mine to care for and mine alone. I could not pass this task to anyone else. I could not expect someone else to give it the love and protection it needed to be whole.

The words of the father of the family resonated again. This time with meaning. ‘This is yours. You must look after it and care for it, always.'

I closed my eyes and muttered. ‘This is mine... My life is in my hands.' A small wave of fear and then a wash of relief surged within at these words. I opened my eyes and looked at the flower. It had fiercely, and strongly resurrected. It pulsed and glowed like never before. It almost appeared to nod at me. I appreciated the fragility and the strength within the flower. The preciousness and uniqueness of it. I appreciated this was mine. My life, my strength, my beauty, my vitality, my responsibility. Mine, all mine.

I close my eyes again and opened them. I looked at the flower and it had become fully whole again. This time, radiantly bright. As I gazed the flower gently disappeared melting into my skin. I felt a great surge of lifeforce running through my entire body, mind and heart.

I took a moment just to appreciate the magic and the intensity of the epiphany. I am my own protector. Life is both fragile and beautiful and this is my life right now. I create my own magic. A gentle wind swirled around my feet and kissed my face. 'I walk my path with trust, hope, love and faith. The moment is now’. With that, I stepped into my future.

This is a story of the beauty and fragility life. Strength and vitality is within each and every one of us, sometimes we falter, sometimes we just want someone else to care for us, however, importantly, we need to care for ourselves first. Just like the oxygen mask. Our life is in our hands, even when life takes unusual turns and seems out of control.

For all those who might be struggling, remember to nurture the flower within. Loosely in the words of one of my favourite singers and writers Patti Smith, it might be a little paraphrased but it goes something like this:

‘Flower and heart are equal, as one unfolds the other is closing, the fist of charm, the dance of fathoms, there is always more after, there is always more after’.