I bent down to
touch the nickel-sized yellow flowers in my yard this morning. Crouched down, I saw that they were not, in
fact, growing out of the grassy lawn but were rooted in the wet mud from this
month’s pervasive rain. Beautiful in their simplicity, the dainty flowers opened
to the first sunshine in days. They glowed, shined, as if they were oily or
wet. My forefinger and thumb carefully touched the petals but I could feel
nothing; my dry calloused fingers could not register the apparent silkiness of
the small yellow wildflowers (that some would call “weeds”). I really wanted to
be able to feel the petals so I rubbed the flowers against the back of my hand;
still, I could feel little more than the barest touch, the tiniest sensation.
Ah, I thought: like when testing the temperature of milk for an infant’s bottle,
I will use the sensitive inside of my wrist as the touchpoint for the flowers.
There, on that very tender part of my arm, I could just get enough sensation to
understand the fragility of these flowers…seemingly rugged weeds growing out of
a mud patch, brilliant in the sunshine…delicate.
This reminds me
of two things.
I had a meltdown
a few nights ago. I responded harshly, cold and shut down to another’s sensitivity while I wallowed in my own desire to avoid obligation; I could not, at first, soften to the
request of a loved one. I led with the calloused part of my exterior – my
toughness; my resolve; my desire to have things go easily, go my way; my fierce
independence that wants to just appreciate those things I want
to enjoy without unwelcome distraction. But then I turned out my frigid, blaming self to
the darkness of the night so that I could find my deeper Self: kind, loving, gentle, sensitive, emotionally
naked. I put away the plans, worries, aggression… my armor against my own and
others’ raw vulnerability…so that I could focus on what really matters –
connecting compassionately with myself and with others. My hard exterior could not, at first, feel
tenderness; but softness can only be felt by softness. Thank god for
little yellow flowers that stand in the mud to teach me lessons.
This morning in
the yard also reminds me that the summer solstice is upon us, a day to celebrate
the longest daylight of the year. A day to relish the growing things, the
fecundity of the earth that brings forth golden rays, little mirrors of the sun
on the ground. These stretched out days are ones to cherish.
Although isn’t every day a treasure if we but embrace it?
Summer Solstice Greetings!
All blog photographs taken by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
