This summer, a single rose, blousy and beautiful has inspired awe and gratitude in my heart. Awe for the sheer wonder of the natural world that produces such intricacy out of nothing. And gratitude that it should grace my garden.
I wrote last time about my love for this rose on the crossing between Oban and the Isle of Tiree. I had expected to be sailing the day before, but fierce weather rendered it impossible. I arrived home to discover this treasured rose snatched from its stem by the storm that had delayed my homecoming. It is continuing to delight me from its new home on the breakfast table, but it won't last. Soon its petals will drop and what remains of it will be consigned to the worm bin. Veneration for the process that will transfom this lovely fleeting thing into the soil that will host the next generation of rose bushes helps me feel easier about this loss.
The garden of my heart too has been ravaged by a storm. Inclement conditions gave rise to a tumult of grief that reduced my self worth to ash. The ego has been struck by lightning and, unlike the rose which didn't resist its fate, the ego grapples for survival. One endurance tactic is to shroud itself in Victim. I can pronounce from the catwalk, that the raiment from this Design House saps the joy out of life. Unlike the clean lines of Channel, it is messy, or the beautiful stitchwork of Versacci, it is ugly. The fabric is heavy, itchy and just plain nasty.
I've retreated from the limelight and abandoned this unsuitable garment to the rubbish heap. When the burnt out ego can lie still with the rose for just a moment, it is possible to notice that its ravaged form has a diaphonous quality that far exceeds the beauty of anything produced in the great fashion houses. In the stillness, the heart can weep and keen. Sorrowing for what is lost is part of our human condition. The rose doesn't need to grieve its fallen petals or its curtailed life, but a person does and we are more human, more manifested in love when we allow ourselves our sorrow.
This is my current condition. The doomed ego exerts every effort to resist this experience of brokenness. It would prefer the enbittered accouterments from the House of Victim, but with tender nursing care it is persuaded to lie back on its pillows and see the magic that is taking place. Shining through the holes of its damaged self is the luminous wonder of humility and awe.
Our lives are as fleeting and unpredictable as my treasured rose. My nascent horticultural skills means it’s a feat of survival if anything makes it through a season. Life in the garden, however, continues regardless of my gardening ineptitude. This year, what might have been lawn, has been mostly ragwort, long grasses with feathery seed heads, a smattering of harebells and an abundance of dandelions. Four of the five Rowan trees I planted didn’t make it, rosemary and lavender turned to twigs, the slugs reduced the pansies to nothing. I forgot to transplant the bulbs and the pond didn’t get puddled and planted as I’d planned. Broccoli and kale fed us, rhubarb produced squat pink bitter stems and the rose delighted us until it’s lovely life was cut short.
I tend the garden of my heart with the same novice skill. Some of what flowers in my life turns out to be poisonous, like the ragwort, and sometimes something beautiful and unexpected springs up like the harebells. However, if I want an oasis with fountain and flowers, I must do the work of the spiritual gardener. Carefully tilling and planting, lining the hole that’s been dug for the pond with clay so it’s watertight, selecting plants for their fragrance, beauty and the nourishment they provide. The qualities of love, kindness and peace must be nurtured, at first clumsily, but as life matures in me, with skill born of experience and commitment, these virtues can flourish in the garden of my heart.
The rose reminds me that life persists, even in the face of death and suffering. I've gathered the dried petals that dropped from the rose as it withered on the table. Perhaps I'll try my hand at using them to dye fabric. I participated in a workshop on hand-dying a shroud a while back. I have a shroud in my wardrobe ready to clothe my body once it's in the same condition as the broken rose. Perhaps it would be an appropriate meditation to use these petals to give colour and beauty to a garment from the House of Death.
If you're sorrowing or languishing in the House of Victim, and want help to disenrobe and discover the beauty of a heart at rest, book into my calendar to find out how the Grief Recovery Method could serve you. No charge and no pressure.
Kommentare