Blossoming
I mostly want to share this photo of a blossoming prickly pear cactus being pollinated by a bee.
I’ve been driving past this enormous cacti for months and this week, finally, it blossomed. I stopped and took photos yesterday and have been staring at them regularly since.
I myself feel like a prickly pear cactus, waiting to blossom. I have a tattoo in fact, unfinished, where everything but the flowers is filled in with color. It and I feel, unfinished. Not quite ready to blossom.
And I am absolutely in awe of this flower, the texture of the petals, the vibrancy of the colors.
The owners of said cacti seem to love cars. They have about five cars parked in their driveway and sideways in front of these flowers and I sneak my eyes around them to see them regularly.
And I’m not quite sure why I am unfinished.
The blossoming looks so delightful.
Perhaps I was picked on one too many times by curious grubby childlike fingers.
Perhaps the sun, scorched me once or twice.
Perhaps I gulped and felt overwhelmed by heavy rains.
And have learned to love and crave the safety of a tightly bound bud.
And the day continued and I found more blossoms.
I said something to a friend recently and he said, “That’s the most poisonous perspective on this.”
I thought, “Welcome to my mind.” Twenty five years of cycles of bleeding and I’m still rocked by the way my premenstrual brain distorts everything; contorts it all until everything feels poisonous.
When I see foxglove I see the heart, stopped. The way this plant has been used in medicine to stop the hearts of people. That’s what I know and that’s what I see. And I forget that somewhere along the line, someone figured out that small doses of this plant can help our hearts pump more efficiently. Small doses control irregular heartbeats and help our hearts work better. It is life saving for most. And only lethal in heavy doses.
And when I glance at this, that small dose into my eyes, I feel my heart calm and soothe itself.
Remembering, finally, now as I bleed, that it’s not all bad.
The touch, too much, can strangle.
The sun, too much, can burn.
The rain, too much, can drown.
But usually, soft hands, warm sun, tiny drops of rain, quench.
And so slowly, like those before me, I learn to soften and open.
My mom lives forever in pink roses.
Among other places.
And she shows me, gently.
And from afar.
How to blossom.
Happy spring, loves.
Amy