Allow It To Wither

A flower is a story that Nature keeps telling Herself. Some flowers smell nice. They send their gentle perfume on the waves of the air to uplift our spirits and draw in the bees who will make them even sweeter than they've been.

The bees enrich the essence of a flower.

We have the senses to enjoy the beauty and the scent. We can even touch its soft, velvet petals one by one to the innocent rhythm of "she-loves-me-she-loves-me-not".

Each sense allows us access to the same essence, building upon the witness of the previous senses -- like new chapters, all a part of the same story which Nature tells us through that flower.

But the bees, irresistably evoked by that essence, come and turn the essence of that flower and all the others surrounding it, into yet one more chapter of something we would not otherwise be able to read. Sure, some flowers are edible, but no flower would be as sweet as honey if it were not for the bees.

A fragrant flower buds, blossoms, blooms. It calls to the bees and is wedded to them. The bees take its essence, and the whole story ends even sweeter than it began. The essence of Divine Comedy.

Some flowers stink. They're ugly, dull, prickly or just plain antagonistic to the human senses. Nature is speaking to us through these flowers as well. Some eccentrics might value these flowers, but most of us either label them as weeds or as exotic flora which we happily banish to the deepest reaches of the Amazon -- a place brimming with Life to be sure, but one which we will never, never set foot in.

A stinky, squatty, scrubby, perhaps even prickly little bugger opens its essence to the World, only to elicit disgust and rejection -- and quite frequently even martyrdom. The essence of Divine Tragedy. Don't let it bloom. Don't let it be seen or smelt or felt. And DEFINITELY don't let it go to seed. We can't have any more of such disgrace plaguing the garden of our senses.

But Nature keeps telling us these stories. These prickly, stinky, prolific little stories will take over our lives if we let them. And even if we resist them, even if we catch them before they go to seed, funny how Nature has found other ways to make sure these stories keep being told.

Many such weeds have learned how to proliferate "under the surface" so-to-speak. I have a garden full of Russian Thistles. Have you ever tried to eradicate these plants? You may pull each and every one up by its roots long before it goes to seed, but what happens? What you can't see -- the root system -- is so extensive and holds so many stores of carbohydrates, that it simply says, "Huh, nice try," and sprouts three other stalks from where the first stalk was broken.

You will work very hard to keep such a garden -- such a story -- looking nice for the neighbors. Each few days you will have to spend hours on hands and knees plucking weeds so that all they see are the plants and flowers and fruits you intend to grow.

Nature is telling you a story. She's writing it in front of your very eyes. But you keep trying to erase the words, to extinguish the scent. Because once the scent gets on the wind, the wind will tell everyone.

Most tragically of all, the wind will tell YOU. It will tell you with each waft of stench that you stink. That you have failed. That your situation has gotten out of control. That your precious garden is ugly. That as you try to tend to the fruits of your labor and love, you will be pricked, poked, and prodded by the contrary stories that just keep telling themselves over, and over, and over, and over, and over -- hundreds, thousands, millions of times over.

We never intend for these stories to crop up in our lives. And if we let them, they will bloom and produce nectar, fruit, and seed just like the stories we want to keep seeing, smelling, and experiencing.

But all of this is just the build-up, the prologue, of what I really want to say to you. There are many ways to deal with weeds, and each way you try will teach you deep wisdom about the negative stories in your lives. How you can get rid of them -- usually temporarily -- so that you look better to yourself and others.

But may I make a suggestion? Or rather, may I let Nature speak?

Allow It To Wither.

If you stop fighting a negative story you have between you and your Mother, your Sister, your Father, Brother, or Friend; between you and your Religion, or your job; between you and your dreams, your hopes, your Soul, your Self...

If you stop telling that story that you keep telling over and over again, what will happen? Eventually, that part of the story WILL die.

Everything in this World dies. Because everything in this World was once born. And if you let it run its natural course, it will -- soon enough -- Wither.

You're afraid of this. This goes against your every instinct, your every impulse. You tell yourself if you don't actively try to destroy it, to rip it up by the roots, it will proliferate. But like the weed that you pull up deeply by the roots, what you can't see is that under the surface you have just elicited a response which will lead to three more weeds sprouting in their own time.

Resistance elicits an unconscious natural response. Your resistance is just ensuring that your negative story is YOUR story, and it will keep coming back. You'll never let it go.

But Nature offers another option. An alternative natural response.

Allow It To Wither.

Besides, there's something you're forgetting my dear friend. Watch your weeds in their final hours. Watch them bloom and smell them stink. Feel them sting. Saunter on up to them real slow and careful-like, and you'll see something you maybe hadn't suspected. You'll hear something you hadn't listened for in them.

The bees.

They're making honey out of the flowers and the stories you kept trying to kill. They're actually turning those stubby little buggers into something sweet, something useful, a natural preservative, a natural anti-biotic and anti-viral medicine. A sweetener that can be added on top of all the things we have to palate in this life. It can even be used as a healing balm on the very cuts and scrapes which those prickly little weeds gave you in days and years and decades gone by.

In the closing hours of things that die -- Mothers, Fathers, Sisters, Brothers, religions, jobs, dreams, and Spouses, and all the rest -- we are allowed by Nature to pick up the pen and write the final chapter of that particular story. We are allowed to resolve conflicts once and for all, to reflect on the rising actions, and to turn the climax -- whether it smelled sweet or repulsive -- into honey as we integrate its nectar into all the other wisdom from all the other stories of our life.

Allow It To Wither.

If we allow those dying things to wither, instead of trying to prematurely destroy them, or artificially prolong them and subsequently watch them grow moldy and ugly -- we will, with each falling petal, reflect on what story has been told. Each petal is a paragraph leading to that final blank page of a book that is no longer fragrant, nor does it stink.

It is now, quite simply, Sweet.

Allow It To Wither.

Its wisdom has now become sweet honey to your Soul. Put down your pen, and close the book.