Imaginal Journal
Imagination is Medicine
This Flower Alone by Lyla June Johnston
This flower alone,
which at once
is beauty
is rooted in beauty
and whose petals
reach out to beauty
This flower alone,
whose quiet song is drowned
by the blasts and by
the evening news
of the modern world
(but is heard
by the lucky few
who bend to listen)
This flower alone,
and the ambrosia
it plants in every cell
of my being
This flower standing here alone,
living proof of wonder;
living proof of hope;
living proof of beauty;
living proof that God's love for humanity
has not lost its devotion.
This flower alone,
who sits patiently like
a prophecy waiting
to be known
This flower alone,
like a messenger in the dark of night
telling me
that everything
is going to be
alright
This flower alone,
is enough to change my life forever.
The glittering distractions of the information age vanish
and there is only me, the lover,
and you, the wonder.
And if the only beauty alive in the world was this flower
and if all the rest was chaos,
this flower alone,
would still instruct me by sensation
that I am held in the arms
of something greater.
And if my whole life was colored by darkness and destruction
to one day be so blessed as to just behold this flower,
that alone
would be worth
my birth
and my dying.
This flower alone
has
in a moment
deprogrammed my mind
to eat faith and not fear
to wait on joy and not sorrow
to expect communion and not solitude
to face the fires of the world with this unwavering knowing
of beauty and all the fruit it brings.
This flower alone,
in its unassuming tenderness and grace
has in a moment
incinerated my grief
like sweetgrass in the flames
and left behind only the
scent of what is real.
These eyes can see
finally
the beautiful song sung
all around.
And if I could rest
in this place
for just a moment
I would remember who you are
and who I am
and where we are
and how it is supposed to be
for everyone.
Concrete may last for a decade
but the earth will never
ever
stop bursting through it.
This flower alone,
a window to the truth,
plucks me from illusion
and plants me into peace.
Creation's perfect body lovingly ignores the evening news.
Like a lava rock in the fire.
Unscathed, unchanged and unafraid.
I can only pray to be more like you.
You who has no name.
You who has no money.
You who has no clothes
and eats the light of the sun.
This flower alone,
unintentionally and nonchalantly declaring to the universe
that peace
that order
that compassion
that beauty
awaits us all
whether in this life
or the next.
She accidentally wins every argument against her
just by being everything that she is.
The warring nations try not to look at her
lest they become dumbfounded and see that
all their great plans are jejune
in the face of just one piece
of her pollen that can generate children
as beautiful as her
so wondrously and effortlessly.
And can anyone please tell me the purpose of beauty?
Why is it here?
Why do we feel the way we feel when we stand before it?
Why are her petals painted this way?
And how does it help the economy?
Is it here to make us famous?
Or could these brushes against her being truly be
God’s calligraphy against the world whispering to us
in the dark of night about what we already are?
And how can this flower alone
with no hands and no words
be strong enough to turn my face away
from the nightly news
and towards a sight
that taught me more
than the ivy league ever could?
I see now why the darkness has
so systematically isolated us from
Creator's natural world.
Because humans lost in their infatuation with
trees and bees and rocks and rivers
are hard to control.
They can only laugh at coercion,
or worse, you could start laughing yourself.
And if I was just one soldier
who dropped her gun on the ground
and ran into the forest
in search of more of these flowers
would it do anything to change the world?
Or would the war still rage on?
But if the whole army came with me
would we finally rob the world of war
completely
and sweetly sing with her songs of praise
thanking that lapping waters
like a bunch of human beings
lost in the wonder of Creator's
great scheme to feed our bodies, minds and souls.
David Whyte on the Conversational Nature of Reality
The ever inspiring poet and philospher David Whyte shares his wisdom on vulnerablity, nature, and the human condition.
Via On Being with Krista Tippet
VULNERABILITY
"Vulnerability Is not a weakness, a passing indisposition, or something we can arrange to do without, vulnerability is not a choice, vulnerability is the underlying, ever present and abiding under-current of our natural state. To run from vulnerability is to run from the essence of our nature, the attempt to be invulnerable is the vain attempt to become something we are not and most especially, to close off our understanding of the grief of others. More seriously, in refusing our vulnerability we refuse to ask for the specific help needed at every turn of our existence and immobilize the essential, tidal and conversational foundations of our identity.
To have a temporary, isolated sense of power over all events and circumstances, is a lovely illusory privilege and perhaps the prime beautiful conceit of being human and most especially of being youthfully human, but it is a privilege that must be surrendered with that same youth, with ill health, with accident, with the loss of loved ones who do not share our untouchable powers; powers eventually and most emphatically given up, as we approach our last breath.
The only choice we have as we mature is how we inhabit our vulnerability, how we become larger and more courageous and more compassionate through our intimacy with disappearance, our choice is to inhabit vulnerability as generous citizens of loss, robustly and fully, or conversely, as misers and complainers, reluctant, and fearful, always at the gates of existence, but never bravely and completely attempting to enter, never wanting to risk ourselves, never walking fully through the door"
© May 2014 David Whyte
Excerpted from ‘VULNERABILITY’ From the book of essays CONSOLATIONS: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words. http://www.davidwhyte.com/