"I Weep for Narcissus"

I've just started reading The Alchemist with a few colleagues in a virtual book club. The book opens with a story of how the lake pined for Narcissus when he was drowned. You know the story of Narcissus. He admired his reflection a little too well, for he was beautiful, and this led to his demise. However, the lake did not notice that he was beautiful. It grieved and yearned for Narcissus because when it looked at him, it saw the beauty in itself reflected in his eyes.

(Painting by John William Waterhouse)

There is also a flower called Narcissus, also known as daffodil or jonquil. I don't have any in my garden at the moment, but I can't think of jonquils without remembering Joanne Woodward's delightful performance of the mother (Amanda) in The Glass Menagerie. There's a scene in which she recalls her youth and a variety of gentleman callers, and how she had "malaria fever" but went out anyway, just taking quinine and carrying on. In those days, she gathered up jonquils whenever she saw them, and her mother said, "You can't bring anymore jonquils in the house," but she brought them in anyway, by the armful. It's a nostalgic, tender scene because we understand she hasn't been quite as happy again as she was at that time of her life. We understand that to see jonquils now, for her, is to be reminded of who she was, of her own beauty as a young woman.

I've planted at least two hundred bulbs so far during the quarantine, and I already had many lilies and gladioli ready to blossom. Yesterday, I planted black adder hyssop, pearl polianthes, and crocosmia. Soon, this yard will be so full of color and beauty that I will be in a wonderworld. I wonder if the beauty of these flowers reflects something alive in me... something colorful, vivid, playful...

I suppose there are many reasons for having a garden, but I can't help but think that one good reason is to find the beauty and wonder in us again. It seems to be why we go to concerts, too, or listen to music alone in our rooms.

This evening, I'm listening to another fantastic performance at De Barra's Folk Club online. John Spillane has taken me through the whole country and spirit of Ireland in his music. The very first song brought tears to my eyes. I weep for Narcissus... and that is a good thing.

One for the road, John Spillane says. Yes, one for the road, my friends. I'm gonna set you free...

Tamara

Comments

Reaping What I Sow

That's the essence of karma, isn't it, and really the core of the golden rule as well: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you... because that's probably how it's going to work out. The hurt we caused years ago may come back to humble us in the form of a humiliating sting or a gaping heart wound today. We often reap what we sow, and it's great in the garden. It can be great in everyday life, in our spiritual work, too, if we are sowing good seeds full of grace and compassion. (painting by Carol Wisniewski ) I don't know if you've ever caused any pain to other people, but I have --- and I've written about it before, and worked to forgive myself, and all those kinds of spirtual practices, but I still regret it. I've never understood when people say they don't have any regrets. I remember hearing a friend say that once in front of his wife, whom he had hurt terribly at one time -- to the point that they divorced, but later remarrie...

Cicada Song

(borrowed from Obviously Chloe They're back, and they are mighty --- out in full force, showing off. Cousin to the leafhopper and froghopper, I hear. And while I listen, I am also tuning in to Jubilee Circle , the community church I attend (virtually, at the moment). The service began with a gentle piece on violin. Via Positiva Theme: remaining open. Hearts wide open. One blink away from being fully awake (thank you, Pema Chodron). We need something to wake us up. Drumbeat, sage, find the four directions, and listen to the voices of the cicada. Most of the time it lives underground, growing for years into an adult. Cicadas drink the sap from trees, and in large swarms cause destruction. This year is the once in 17-year mating cycle, according to Jason Slotkin of NPR. Cicadas mean summer. They are invested in mating. What is it, friends, that we are investing ourselves in? Does the soul stand a chance in this withering political climate? Have you heard of the ...

When the Roof Caves In...

Two nights ago, while I was sleeping, a heavy rainfall crushed the greenhouse roof, which was not much after all but PVC pipes and plastic. We had a couple of pipes we put in for reinforcement (propped up) when it rained, but we didn't know it was raining, and isn't that just how it goes? The rain comes, the roof falls, while you're sleeping. No fear, congregation. As I was taught, the church isn't the building. It's the creatures who inhabit it, in a spirit of community and grace and all good things. Only a few of the plants were bruised and disorganized, but well glory... everything is alright. Look here, new green shoots, new underfeathering, leaves widening and spreading. We are alive. One of my favorite poems is really a hymn because what is a hymn but an act of praise, a song, a poem? Here's the whole thing (go on... you'll be glad you did): "Sestina" But oh... this line: Time to plant tears , says the almanac. Yes, time to plant...

Church in the Greenhouse

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