from petals to fruit

As I did my daily practice this morning, I shared the space with a pot of pink-yellow tulips that came into my life last week. We’d coincidentally acquired two or three other pots of flowering spring plants around the same time this past week, and they were collecting on our dining room table. Noticing this and wanting to spread the beauty around, I’d brought these into my practice /coaching room a few days ago before a meeting there with an old friend.

The last few days I have noticed how the blossoms have opened more in the sunshine, and closed partially at night. This morning as I entered the room, the morning sun was shining on and through the petals, making them glow. Beautiful, and yet I also felt a slight aversion. When I turned towards this inner contraction with curiosity, I realized that it was because I was comparing the tulips to the day before, and noticing how they are past their prime. The petals are wide open, some of them open enough that they look like they might fall off soon.

I proceeded to do my Pilates and my sitting meditation, which were not facing the flowers. Then, I did my “air jo,” the 31-jo-kata form from Aikido without the wooden staff, since there’s not enough room to do it with the jo indoors. (I’ve been practicing air jo since last December, when I learned it from the lovely and amazing adrienne maree brown). As I did my customary 5 repetitions of the form, (each one with a different “declaration” as focus), I was facing the flowers most of the time. I felt like they were changing perceptibly, each time I looked at them, being a little more open, and, when I looked more closely between repetitions of the form, a little more curled at the edges. They also looked different depending on whether the sun was out or behind a cloud.

I allowed myself to feel the sadness of their passing more fully. And, as I looked closely at them again, I realized that the loss of the beautiful petals also means the burgeoning of the fruiting body in the center. One of my declarations that I practice with is “I am a commitment to slowing down, relaxing back, and receiving the present moment with gratitude.” As I did this, I practiced appreciating the beauty of the flowers in this moment, rather than comparing them to what they looked like yesterday, or even in the previous moment.

I have been practicing this with other aspects of my life as well. When people ask me these days how I’m doing, tell me I’m looking well, ask me how I’m feeling, I usually say something like, “I’m well, as far as we know (knock wood),” and/or, “I’ve got minor complaints, the chemo put me into menopause suddenly and I’m dealing with all of those things that go with sudden lack of hormones.” Those symptoms include things like dry eyes, achiness in hands & feet after sleep and other periods of stillness, hot flashes (prickly, not sweaty), and lower libido. I also have continued numbness in my chest and under-arms, and of course, the new shape and the scars which I’m still getting used to. With all of these, it is so easy to find them upsetting, like the tulip petals widening towards their demise. Sometimes the comparison with my former self is a positive one – I am happy being 20 pounds lighter since the bilateral mastectomy and the low-fat diet, for instance, and enjoy the freedom of not wearing a bra.

I have had glimpses of being able to let go of comparing myself now to myself before the cancer, and just appreciating the present aliveness. When I look close, and see the petals’ immanent surrender to the fruit, I feel inspired to enjoy the beauty of the sun on the curling of my edges, and appreciate what is ripening in my center.