A little something that started my day with a tone that carried through a long day away from home, first at a meeting for work, one that took me dangerously close to the Art Museum. I drive an hour for the meeting. Each way. The meeting is two hours. The thought of going to the meeting and then driving back home straightaway seemed, oh I don't know, it seemed a little disappointing. So I stopped in at the Art Museum for a couple of hours to check out the new exhibition on Modern American Art. It was the loving thing to do.
And it was wonderful.
I think it might have been that little thing, first thing in the morning, that little thing that reminded me about the tiny results we often fail to notice but that are there nonetheless. I think it was that little thing that set the tone for my day and encouraged me to remember myself. And my need for expansive experiences, for beauty, for a detour to tend my soul.
I was up with the sunrise and opening up the house. I love the morning air just after dawn. It is cool and fresh. The light is soft. There is wild color in the sky. I walk through the house, bringing up the shades and opening the windows. Sometimes turning on the window fans to bring in fresh air and carry away any stale energy.
My attention was caught by a small cyclamen I have in the living room. She was beautiful. Lush foliage. Deep green leaves. It was only a few days ago that I was wondering if I'd still have her at the end of the week. She had seemed to be in a malaise. Buds that dried up, wilted, and never opened. Brown leaves around the bottom. It looked like there might be too few healthy leaves for her to survive, much less thrive.
I took her into the kitchen and gave her a good soaking. I cut away the dead leaves and buds. She seemed a shadow of her former self. She looked like she had been neglected. Had I somehow missed something? All the other plants looked great and I couldn't help wondering what was going on with her. I think I even asked her. I don't understand what happened to the buds, which only last week had come up. I'd been looking forward to the bloom. And when I set her back on the shelf, I wasn't sure whether she'd bounce back.
She was a new expression of herself today. And it took my breath away.
I marveled at how something so simple as a bit of pruning could make such a huge difference. And it got me thinking about my own resilience and about the power of shedding what no longer is alive for me. About how holding on to what is dead can actually make us less vibrant and threaten our thriving. Once pruned, there is more room for healthy new growth.
And she did not disappoint. I wouldn't be surprised if we see some blossoming soon.
The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed on June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months of thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.