A Celebration of Blossoming!
March 28, 2007 · by Christine
(photo above by Cheryl MacPherson of a fawn lily)
What fun to read all of your wonderful stories, poems, and reflections about blossoming! I am grateful to everyone who participated. Please follow the links below to read some of the participants and also click on the comments section to read two stories submitted that I had permission to share here. Thank you also to those of you who shared stories with me by email that felt too vulnerable to share in a public forum.
Jo at Soul Food UK has this beautiful blossoming poem and Rich at Pilgrim Path has a great poem titled The Knock
Tess at Anchors and Masts posted about Blossoming Smiles.
Kayce at Diamonds in the Sky With Lucy has three posts on Blossoming Compassion, two Spring Haiku, and Let It Blossom
Wendy at Bluebird of Happiness Comes to Tea shares about themes of blossoming in the Feast of the Annunciation.
What Can Be Done While Waiting
You can’t force open a bud.
You can pause to marvel at the
petals all tightly packed, compact,
held within, barely emerging from the cloak of green.
But you can’t force it open.
You can sit with that bud, and let it know
that you are alive to witness its own aliveness
waiting, brimming to break forth.
You can remind that bud of the long, many long dark hours
it spent deep within the earth,
as a dream, a hope, a whisper, a promise.
With your own long deep breath,
you can remember to that bud
how water is even now drawn up its
very stem to fill the slender stamens sequestered within.
You can sit in silence together
while the sun beams its light on closed quarters,
as if to call – “Lazarus, come forth!”
Quietly, you can recall together the dream of what’s to come.
And while you are believing and waiting and believing
sometimes you can spy the almost imperceptible
curl of a petal unfolding
and the glint of color poking out, streaming through …
But mostly it will happen
when you close your eyes and open them again:
there it will be – bursting forth in unabashed
inexplicable exquisite beauty –
a blossom opening itself so boldly,
so brilliantly, so divinely to the world,
proclaiming such delicate praises before your awe-filled eyes.
-this wonderful poem is written by my marvelous teaching companion Betsey Beckman
Thank you so much to all who participated, I will send each of you a prayer card! And the winner of the whole set of prayer cards is. . . Jo from Soul Food UK!
Feel free to add comments below if you have any other words or images about blossoming you want to share here. It feels like the fragrant winds of spring have just blown through to awaken everything that is alive!
-Christine Valters Paintner @ Abbey of the Arts
Posted in Photos, Seasons, Links to Websites |
March 28th, 2007 at 7:56 am
A Beautiful Day
by KQ
A few autumns ago, in preparation for my parents’ new roof, I cleaned out a
bunch of my stuff in their attic. I am one of those people who saves
everything. One of the boxes I found held my old journals from when my
ex-husband and I were courting, leftover wedding announcements, and all of my
old love letters ~ the ones I received and the ones I wrote. I took them home,
and procrastinated opening the box. Two weeks before my birthday that year, I
started reading the contents of the box. It was mesmerizing and horrifying, and
it brought up all kinds of hurtful memories, even 30 years later. After about an
hour I realized that nothing good could come from reading further. I put the box
away and resolved to rid myself of the letters soon.
My best friend told me to just throw them away. “NOW”, he said. (He knows how I
keep things and how I procrastinate!) But I couldn’t just put them in the trash.
For one thing, I can’t throw away paper ~ it’s against my recycling nature ~ and
I sure didn’t want to live with the symbolism of recycling my old love letters!
I knew I had to burn them.
I had a rare week-day off on my birthday, and so I took the box and headed for
one of my favorite places, a redwood park about 45 minutes away. I stopped on
the way and bought some picnic food, and matches and kindling wood. It was a
beautiful day, fresh, mild and blue skied with a bit of a breeze. Driving down
the coast, the ocean was breathtaking. Turning inland, the trees were gold and
brown and green down the country lanes.
When I pulled into the park, I asked the ranger if it was okay to build a fire,
and he said sure, as long as I kept it in the barbeque fireplace. Great. So I
found a nice spot in the trees and unpacked wood, picnic, and The Box. I sorted
through, not wanting to destroy any of my journals, and made three piles:
wedding stationery, his letters, my letters. I crumpled up some wedding
announcements into little balls, stacked some wood around it like a teepee, and
lit them.
I build a pretty good fire. A few more pieces of wood, and then a stack of
wedding cards. Then another, and pretty soon those were gone. Being a good Girl
Scout, I made certain that none of the burning paper was able to fly up into the
trees, weighing down the burning paper with more kindling. Then his letters:
first, one at a time, then by the handful. I watched as the envelopes burned
and curled away from the words inside. It became a bit of a job, getting all of
them into the fire and safely burning away, but soon they were all burning. Then
my letters ~ I surprised myself by throwing these in quickly, in stacks. Bye
bye. Watch them burn away. Even the ribbons that held the envelope bundles:
gone.
Standing back, I was amazed at how big the fire was, for just a few stacks of
paper and half of a small bag of wood. It burned white hot and high; I brushed
the redwood needles away from the top of the fireplace so they wouldn’t catch.
I remembered that I had my camera with me, and I pulled it out to take a
picture, to remember this moment. Turning it on, the battery sign flashed at
me. No pictures today… this would be a sacred moment for my memory, not a
camera, to hold. I sat down and ate a delicious lunch, and watched the fire
burn.
The whole time I’d been in the park, a light breeze was disturbing the tops of
the redwoods, high above. It made a pleasant sound, and every once in a while a
stronger gust would send a shower of redwood “leaves” down, and they covered
everything. When I was through with lunch, the flames had gone down a bit. I
poked around the fire with a piece of kindling, but I kept getting splinters ~
ouch! So I looked around for a stick to use as a poker. No long sticks. I
wandered over to some of the other picnic tables. How could there be no sticks?
There was nothing to poke the fire with at all. I walked back to the fire. Just
as I was reaching for that splintery kindling, something fell from above and
landed behind the fireplace. I walked around the back to see: a perfect poking
stick.
“Wow, thank you”, I said, and began tending the fire. As I moved the burning
remnants around, encouraging them to finish burning so that I might leave the
fire with a clear (girl scout) conscience, the end of the stick caught fire. I
blew it out, then finished tending the coals. It caught fire again, so I blew
it out, but it was still glowing. I tapped it out around the flat river stones
of the fireplace, and noticed that I’d made quite a charcoal mark on the stones
and at the same time fashioned a point on the end of the stick. A pencil!
Unable and unwilling to resist, I knew I needed to write something on the
fireplace to commemorate the occasion. While the point of my new pencil was
still smoldering, I began: F - O - R - G - (burn the poker a little for more
charcoal) I - V - E. Yep, that seemed right. I wasn’t sure who was supposed to
forgive whom ~ if I was asking for forgiveness, or being asked to grant it.
Maybe forgive meant towards the departed relationship as a whole, or maybe it
was towards myself, or the past, or maybe God just wanted forgiveness for all
concerned.
I poked down the coals a little more, and I wished I’d brought marshmallows,
they were so perfect. My poker smoked and burned a little more, so I put it out
by darkening the word with fresh charcoal: FORGIVE And then, unbidden, it came
to me. There was one more letter to draw: N.
Forgiven. It was finished, the forgiveness accomplished, everything burned away
and nothing left but smoldering white hot ashes which would cool soon enough and
blow away.
I drove home in joy.
March 28th, 2007 at 7:57 am
The Prodigal, Revisited by an anonymous writer
Once there was a couple that was divorcing. The husband left, angry and bewildered. He quickly found an attorney, and just as quickly started making lots of plans – about child support, selling the house, car insurance, spousal support, and many other items. He seemed to have little regard for the actual cost of the divorce; there was no limit for he needed control. And this need for control began to creep into other areas of his life…
The wife stayed in the house, caring for the minor children, trying to manage the many details as well as her pain, consulting with her attorney before making any decision yet concerned and cautious as the attorney fees mounted. She so wanted to do this the right way. She was, after all, safe and responsible.
The husband continued in his controlling fashion, and without fully realizing quite how it happened, he lost control and his life fell apart – more debt than he could fathom, no job, few friends to support him, and depression became a constant companion. He hit bottom and finally came to his senses. He admitted to his family he had blown it, that he had been manipulative and abusive. And his family welcomed him back with open arms and forgiveness.
And the wife felt betrayed once again.
Her family and friends assured her that she had been faithful; she had maintained integrity throughout the divorce. And they reminded her that ultimately, the divorce and the life that was unfolding, was about her, not him. They loved her, and cared for her, and prayed for her, and slowly, in God’s time, she was like the hidden treasure in the field that was uncovered. She was as the lost sheep that was found, for in some real, honest way she too had returned home ~ home to the person, the woman, the soul, she had longed to be. And they rejoiced. And her tears now had joy written in them.
And God held her close in Her arms, wiping the tears of both of them, and whispered in her ear, “I’ve been by your side, accompanying you all along the way as you peeled away the layers of others’ expectations and the many “shoulds” of life. I cried as you relinquished yourself, as you hid behind fears and shame. But the old has passed away, you are a new creation. Welcome home my beloved child.” And the Spirit breathed a sigh of relief and smiled.
March 29th, 2007 at 12:34 am
What a nice gathering. I was especially moved by what KQ wrote. Very moved actually…
March 29th, 2007 at 7:14 am
Look at all the fun I’ve missed. I’m afraid I’ve allowed my list of favorite blogs to become so long that I am hopeless to visit them all in a timely fashion! I’ll look forward to reading everyone’s entries. The prayer cards are really beautiful. I have been doing SoulCollage® cards and had a fleeting thought about prayer cards. How wonderful to see them done so beautifully by you.
March 29th, 2007 at 9:35 pm
Thank you Wendy and Lisa for your comments. I am very moved by all of the blossoming here.