Try it Again

Me: “It was a wildflower I had not seen before.  Sort of a purplish-pink color.”

Higher-Self Me: “Ok, stop.  Now what did you really see?  Try it again.”

Me: “It was incredibly unique.  I had never seen anything like it.  I walked up on it and it exploded with color.”

Higher-Self Me: “Wait a minute.  What else was around you?  And what did you actually experience?  Try it again.”

Me: “It’s silky-smooth petals were fully open.  The sun was just striking it.  Shadowing its yellow center.”

Higher-Self Me: “Look, I want to feel this.  I want to see, hear, touch, smell, and taste it.  Got it? Try it again.”

Me: Sigh . . . Deep breath . . . “Here goes . . .”

“I was almost to the top of a butte, east of the Cascades.  The cold breeze, a stark contrast to the sunlight I felt on my checks.  Fire and ice, simultaneously biting and burning.  I had set out at dawn and no one else was on the trail, just myself and anything nature wished to reveal.  I paced myself on the upward climb.  No hurry.  People miss so much when they hurry.  The messages from Mother Earth.  Her beckoning with the beauty she cradles.

A small rock outcropping narrowed the path.  Opposite, a regal pine towering some 40 feet above me.  The base of its trunk 20 feet below my perch.  A parallel branch provides a handrail.  If you lose your footing here you’ll be airborne to the switchback below.

And there it was, staring back at me.  Its stalk pale green.  The tips of its leaves brown from the dry, high-desert wind.  A solitary bloom.  Unlike anything I have ever seen.  As glorious as the sunrise itself.  A burst of vibrant color from the brown earth beneath it.

An untamed river in the valley below snakes its way through the small, sleeping township.  Yet it’s bone dry where I stand.  You would expect sand.  Maybe cacti.  Not a delicate flower.  Certainly not a wild lily.

How did its seed come to rest here?  Enough moisture for it to sprout?  It will be gone tomorrow.  One brilliant strike of lightening, here and gone.  If I had blinked, I would have missed it.  Stepped callously by this treasure, this gift of the gods.  But she made sure I would see her.

The sunlight illuminated her, like a fire within.  Glowing lavender petals, fiery pink at their bases – reflections of the warm flames dancing in my campfire the night before. Fine yellow hairs, not one out of place, ring the center of her womb.  A middle spire, triangular peak.  Points aligning like the stars Altair, Denab and Vega; the Summer Triangle.  A half a dozen filaments sway.  Sprinkling magic dust, pollen.  New seeds will spring forth when she withers.

I lean into her.  Touch her.  She yields.  Her petals softer than silk, sheer, cool and moist. Exquisite.  I breath in her bouquet.  Fruity-sweet, ginger, maybe oakmoss, a hint of camphor.  A narcotic blend to deliver you to Morpheus, god of dreams.  Intoxicating.

My mind wanders . . .”

 

Higher-Self Me: “Humm, maybe we’ll try it again tomorrow.”

***

Photo:  Introducing calochortus macrocarpus, the Sagebrush Mariposa Lily.

I dedicate this to Heather, a dear heart who has challenged me to use all of my senses.