Jim Hare classic posts Archives

Flowers on the Mesa

I have a thought waiting for a story. That’s how it is sometimes. A grain of an idea lies on the fallow ground of my mind. Eventually a precious moment with a connection to the idea arrives, the seed takes hold in my heart, and, voila, a little story is born. Sometimes these little seeds, these little embryos, these packages of germination potential sit for ages. Sometimes I write about the idea, but that never gets at it in a meaningful way.

When I try to write about these ideas, what comes out is an essay, an essay for God’s sake, a dry treatise. Like what I’m doing now. And it is true that there is nothing under the sun, no subject, no essential thought, that has not been worked over by preceding generations of writers, including the idea that there are no new ideas!

Sometimes, though, I will try to flesh out the idea on my electronic papyrus in the hopes it will lead somewhere. Many of my little stories start out with an orphan of a little essay as an introduction, which gets my creativity flowing. Later, I delete the intro. Sometimes I leave it when I email my writing to friends who I know will follow my choo choo of thought. Most often, these wordy beginnings drop off like a (insert metaphor here), and only the little story remains.

My current thought idea takes the form of yet another agricultural metaphor. I see much of human life reflected in the plant world, so when this thought finds a story, the story will be festooned with flowers. Flowers, and illness, and death, four of the great themes of the world, all together in one story!

Some plants and animals live out their existence in a season or less. Others are granted multiple earth orbits to observe the insects and meadow annuals and, in the case of humans, contemplate their own demise. As we get older, we react more strongly to each new symptom of the malfunction of our bodies with increasing concern. We’re not dummies. We see what happens to some of the others.

So we begin to seriously follow our own eclectic, homemade, wellness program based on whatever modern scientific publicity or over the counter, miracle, vitamin/herb cure we believe in. No matter what we put in our bodies, the essence or our medicine is a tincture of hope, made from a drop or two of denial, two drops of magical thinking, mixed in a paste of optimism crushed from the leaves of dread. Based on sound research done by...what interest group was that again?

So we swig daily from a bottle of our own snake oil and blame ourselves and wail to God and our doctor (the latter two could be synonymous) at each new symptom. Then we add another drop of concern to our medicine, and increase the dosage until we are chasing our tails into the future. Our lives become about extending lives that are about extending life.

That is not to say one should not practice wellness. So much of our modern life style is an abomination to our natural being. It makes sense to try to live naturally in an environment that is polluted in ways we haven’t even discovered yet. To effectively do so, it seems, one would have to become a fanatic. And that is what many of us have become. Our lives are about our personal health quest. (insert Bee Gees) "Ah, Ah, Ah, Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive!!".

What is in order here is a qualitative change in our effort at health, an attitude adjustment. What makes me think this is my daisy, a beautiful miniature, which I potted on the porch. Sharon waters it each morning. Tending the porch and walkway is part of her SR.
The plant burst into bright, delicate blooms one morning recently, all at once. One day there were only buds, the next morning all was abloom. Now, many days later, I notice some differences in the bright little petals. Though they all opened at the same time, some of the flowers are faring less well than others. Little black spots on a petal here and there, chew marks on others, a little wilt here, a little droop there. As any other gardener will do, I pinch off the damaged ones, and the plant continues to flourish and look beautiful, and I ponder; the flowers bloom at the same time, but they don’t all die at once. Why?

Humans are like these flowers. We are pinched off by the Great Gardener as we wilt in our own time. Why some before others? Who is to blame? Do the flowers blame?

I was not so quick to pinch off the lame and dying buds today. I sat watching them. I noticed the deformed and multiple amputee buds still open as wide as they can each morning and hold forth as proudly as possible. It is moving, really. They are not like some of us who are consumed with concern for ourselves. They will not stay closed up for fear of losing another petal or drying out. They throw themselves open to the sun to the last, as best they can. Flowers have an admirable lack of self-consciousness.

We are like the flowers in some ways. Our species is the bush. There is a great beauty in our fate, and so much more glory being alive in a moment than we realize most of the time. Flowers are an inspiration.

Fortune, genetics, and choices conspire to set a time on our life. In the end, it is mysterious. We don’t wilt at the same time. That is just how it is. No blame. But what a sadness it is to not have lived radiant in the sun out of fear and self-absorption. I say, do what you can to promote wellness, but each day, open your petals, maimed or otherwise, and face the sun. Spread your sails as best you can, most especially as your time arrives.

That’s it. End of essay. Still no story. But here’s something a friend sent me recently. I think it speaks not only to the old:

The Navajo call age "The Mesa of Looking Backward". The prayer is called Old Man's Morning Song. Old Women may say it, too:

"Sun, I am Old, now. Earth, I am Old now. Sky, I am Old now. Each morning I sing to you and say thank you because I am Old and can see the path behind me. Each day evening comes closer to me. Now I walk with Talking God. Behold how the shadows are all behind me, for I am facing toward the Sun. My path is in beauty. My life is in beauty. With beauty all around me, I am going toward the Sun."

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