Sylt poppy
We’re near the end of a year, which makes me cast my eyes back as if to make sense of how to sum it up, but I admit, this is not a year in review blog, but rather, a focus on a singular moment that spills multiple points in me.
It begins with poppies. Not the opium poppies, by the way. The ones I am writing about are considered innocent red poppies in Germany, although for me, they now carry with them that subtle but indistinguishable teasing smell of nostalgia. To be clear, though, let me state first, that I’m rarely, very rarely nostalgic about a past event or the past in general. Often when in conversation with fellow humans from the continent, who now live in the diaspora like I do, I marvel at their capacity to milk the pain and tenderness of their departures, their rememberings. One particular friend will even start expressing nostalgia about an activity we’ll be sharing in the present moment. We’ll be at a social party having a really good time connecting with ourselves and other guests and this wonderful human will begin talking about how he’s going to miss it all, how he’s already missing us all and the good food we’re eating and the great music we’re listening to. He leaves me no choice but to shake his shoulders and say, look here, man, we’re still having a joyous time. This moment hasn’t passed, yet.
Do you know any people like that?
Sylt meadows
When we happen to talk about the countries we’ve left, oh, my! You’d think we were brought here forcefully. “We” specifically being the group that chose to live elsewhere willingly. In contrast, I feel like I always have Uganda present inside me, regardless of where I dwell, but perhaps, that’s the point: these migrant friends of mine also carry their countries which manifest out of their tongues and bodies differently. So back to the poppies—
Varied centers, from green when young to dark, purplish, bruised-bluish, then black. Whorls of starred filaments, asterisks, and cross-shaped hearts. I wonder if the latter is how they got to be widely used after World War One as symbols to commemorate the dead on Remembrance Day. Or could it be their ability to grow around graves?
Imagine my surprise when I caught myself becoming nostalgic about the wild poppies I communed with in summer this year, when I was in a writing residency on the Island of Sylt. Of all the yearly moments that could have popped up—pun unintended—I saw these gentle beauties opening like soft fabrics before me and the black center of their hearts, which I’d not expected then, lay naked. With trembling fingers, I touched the core, tougher than the petals, and relived the amazement of their incredibly dark souls. From a distance, I’d been taken in by the red intensity until I came close and the inner contrast, now more captivating than the red, pulled me in. I unstrapped my backpack, unzipped and drank some water, removed the phone and took pictures.
wind messing with my hair
Eventually, I sat down and simply admired the poppies for hours. I watched them loosen up as they danced in the wind and I relaxed my palms. Their anthers made me think of a stag’s antlers reaching for the sun. I made a pact with them that I would visit every day, until their flowering and joy ceased. With the wind’s assistance they reminded me of who they truly were: beautiful flowers carefree to sway and take themselves less seriously. Sometimes the Northern wind was very strong and cold. I wore my windproof jacket and wrapped a large scarf around my neck, but not the poppies. They were bare and unafraid. Delicate and tenacious. How to be fearless like that? They did not give up their intensity, nor did they ridiculously hold on to it. They seemed to flaunt it and in no way could the wind lessen it. Even after several weeks passed, the poppies proved to be more powerful than gale-force winds. They did not fall. They did not lose their petals. They did not cease to be. A marvel, really. I spent two months checking on them and they remained in bloom. I am the one whose time in that space expired, so I left.
Looking back, I miss them. I have missed them in flesh even when I have videos and pictures. Talking with them is not the same. In my mind, my daily walks along the North Sea crystalize into this moment by the poppies side. My meditation stretches and stalls here in the meadows. I have stopped moving forward. And yet, they’ve taught me the opposite. I must honor them. I must stand up and dance, shake off the doldrums creeping into my center. If not for myself, then for the poppies. I must tap into the refreshing and wonderful feeling of being—Me. Whatever that means. All that it means. So, things to practice as a new year begins:
Pondering statue in State Botanical Garden of Georgia
- Take self—life, I mean—less seriously. Like Indigo girls’ Closer to Fine, “It’s only life, after all, yeah.” Therefore, to lightness, which is, absence of resistance.
- Laugh and Play. Again, and again. Have the propensity to laugh and play.
- Passion that begins and does not end with compassion.
- Beingness that’s grounded in soul love.
- Aliveness in each moment.
- Appreciation of life and everything the poppies have to offer.
John Denver’s flower that shattered the gravel?
Looking back, I have a feeling that they could see through me. They were loving and patient, gentle and passionate, made of silk and stone, and nothing could get to them. In other words, they did not care. They simply were. Go attitude!
To a Happy New Year.
No comments yet.