Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Did you know that one cannot throw one flower into the waves against the wind? Did you know that if you braid the stems together, on – oh about half dozen black-eyed Susans, then… you can?
It was the last night of vacation. The storms which weather experts had predicted only amounted to Holstein cow type of spots of clouds on an otherwise pure blue summer sky – the kind whose only release are minutes of raindrops upon ones sunglasses before the sun again shines. But the beauty of those clouds hung into the evening. Those heated clouds which had roamed across the state had decided to dance with the welcoming coolness of wind currents for the entire evening, swirling in forever patterns around the moon.
Or at least for this evening they tangoed, casting shadows in the moonlight upon the delighted waves.
At first I thought about tossing rocks in the lake, naming each with parts of my past to be swallowed by my lake. “Too noisy,” I concluded despite the reality that the plunking would never be heard by anyone over the waves beckoning to the shore.
“Feathers.” Oh, Steph, you schmuck. Obviously won’t work. Cool and meaningful, true. Workable? Um, no.
“Flowers.” There seems to be a bonanza of black-eyed Susans this year – those mid-summer testimonies to the seasons which carry the shining torch from June’s bridal daisies into the time of year when apples begin to blush. I know these flowers were not mine to pick. I know. I picked six. No excuses. They belonged to the beach, to the ground. I know..
I grabbed them, thinking I would name each with pieces of my past – with names not of people who had wronged me, but of the sins of which I could count my own among that stolen bouquet. The beach’s sand had no kiss of the day’s warmth. Neither was it cold. The sand’s coolness met the soles of my feet like slipping on shoes that had not been worn warm.
I threw the first flower in the air towards the waves which would swallow the name of that part of my past. Hmm. It was a throw of such utter nonsense. It was a nonthrow throw. “Ok, individual flowers won’t work.” Plus I found myself unable to think of each individual horrible experience. All that had harmed me and from which I had been released now blurred like the erasure of granite pencils upon paper.
Then, I laughed. I did not need to name them. So, I braided them together, those stolen flowers, each with the past it carried. I had a bouquet of individual horrible memories, now blurred by time and prayer, each not having the weight to carry itself into the appetite-whetted mouth of the lake.
I kissed the bouquet. Said a prayer to the waves. I wound-up, leaning backwards in the best pitching stance I knew. And the flowers flew into the welcoming, nonchalant water.
Good news: I actually did get them into the water. Barely. The bouquet went up about eight feet and forward….four.
Extra good news: I always did throw like a girl. (insert wry snicker here).
Super extra good news: (Hey, it’s vacation language!). I swim like a madman.
Please kindly excuse me. I have water and laps to swim.
PS. I had never before seen the sunrise over the lake. I may have missed the Perseids, but I saw the brilliance of a red morning. And Orion. I never had seen Orion so early in the year.
It is no longer about success versus failure or right versus wrong or good versus evil. My path is really about doing the path…
#stolenflowers #thebrickdandelion #imjustme #thebeautifuljourney #thankyouFather #swimlikeamadman