The smell of hyacinth hits my nose the minute I walk in the front door of our house built in 1924 on the elm tree boulevard close to the State University. This purple flower is planted in a basket that sits in front of our green couch that can sleep two, side by side. It sits atop the tiny coffee table that is really a bench, and its job is to be purple and green and fill the air with the luxurious perfume of the hyacinth.
If only each of us did the peculiar job of being ourselves this well and didn't forget by seven years who we are, looking across at the daffodil, comparing its happy unwavering color to that of the deeper, more subtle hue of the hyacinth.
I wonder, when I pray in the mornings for the flowers that have grown in my garden, if some how the blame belongs with me. That they don't recognize themselves, as they are, is sometimes understandable and sometimes a mystery. And sometimes I feel an ache in my heart for all of our suffering, a suffering stirred by the comparing mind.
Would the hyacinth ever compare itself to the narcissus or the daffodil?
I wish I could envelop my children with a wisdom and knowledge that what they bring, who they are is enough. I can hold knowing that in every prayer, hold it as a possibility, know it for myself. The rest belongs to their path and a decision I hope they'll make to honor their uniqueness.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Often when I feel anxiously critical of myself I think of my friend, Annemarie. She reminds me we are all okay as we are.
Even Perfect.
Her ADD moments of isolated thought are often rewarded by totally original insights. She spends time in her tiny castle dorm room constructing models she calls sculptures because she is an artist. And I would say she is a bright orange wildflower, with leaves shaped so as to be almost more striking than the petals. I love her because she reminds me it's okay to love myself.
Thank you for your beautiful description of your friend. According to Carl Jung, you wouldn't see all you do in Annemarie, if it weren't also in you.
Even Perfect.
Jan
Post a Comment