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Passionflower Autumn by Sara Wright

I am gazing out the window; an almost bare budded apple tree’s sap has begun its ancestry for the winter months. Trees participate in a great round; breathing slackens as the tree becomes drowsy. Soon the gracious cold will introduce her and others of her species to sleep , not to awaken until life each tree’s life- blood thickens to rise and soar into the highest diverges with a warming sun. Only tree roots stay awake throughout the winter searching for nutrients, exchanging carbon and carbohydrates, liquid, congregate new friends and by-passing foes, their spring gratuities branching, fusing, radiating- solving problems far more complex than those of humans…

Last night a full white-hot’ coming needle moon’ slipped unobstructed through apple branches shedding shadowy silver weapons around our bed. My bird-dogs were restless. I could see the rounded vivid bead been incorporated in an ebony sky glinting through all the deciduous trees “thats been” dressed in scarlet splendor time a week ago. Last nighttime those trees were bare.

There is a transparency to the forest that opens a secret door. With the wheat colored ferns curling earthward and the frosted brown ground cover laid low I can peer into the dark wood beyond the brook; such a comforting darkness spun out of deep Tree Peace and the change of season.

Raking leaves and apples into a pile of compost that will nourish next year’s garden and bringing down more wood to the porch are the last fall hassles to be done. The mighty winter enterprises are still onward … coming with frigid temperatures and snowfall.

I am apprehensive about wintertime because I tire readily now. Emphysema brakes me down and lowers my vigour on some daytimes. I can no longer expect my organization to respond to physical tensions with impunity. I must caregive myself. Fortunately, I have aid nearby if I need it, and this obligates the difference.

Although I still clamber mountains I do so more slowly, my breathing is often labored; yet in many ways this allows me to see the striking emblazons of a glacial stone, the ribs of the large oaks. I take more time to identify each tree, each new seedling, each sprout or fungus. The details of my adjacents if anything sharpen my notice and intention to stay present like ever been. I am never in a hurry. Just to be able to breathe and step is an incredible gift.

Breathing in and out with the threat of Covid on the rise.

Today, light-footed flood soaks the few remaining leaves; most are disbanded like fading rose petals handling the anchor, slick at night. Out of dres I listen for a rushing brook and hear no bang. The parched dirt is’ a lady in waiting’ … and waters are stilled in funds that start no music. The nurture cascade of rain is still being withheld. My grief blends with that of Nature. I cannot separate the two.

My biological home is nothing more and I am currently recurring a hertz of sorrowing, though hope of a different kind wavers on the horizon.

The soft afternoon lamp and increasing palls seem to draw my gazes and soul towards the flowers in my office. A beings passionflower is sending out more new shoots much to my dread( fall is usually the time these weeds slow down ). She is not yet ready for sleep. But most stunning are the small carvings that yearned for months during the fierce heat of summer as my anxiety and fret developed. Like me they crumbled in the sauna of stagnancy that characterized months of endless waiting for house help to appear. Three weeks ago in a moment of anguish I roughly shed these struggling seed thins out.

I could scarcely recognise that little articulate that comes from both inside me and from without out where reference is discouraged “don’t give up- leant them in your bedroom.” And so I did.

Disbelieving.

I have always had an unexpected liaison with embeds and although I was ignorant of its name for perhaps thirty years, the Passionflower had been coming to me in dreams, telling me to keep my ear to the ground. Eventually I flourished a Passionflower cutting of my own into a vining bush of majestic ratios and this plant and I became inseparable. Once, one of her children were killed when I was in crisis and was about to make a terrible mistake … it was then that I was forced to acknowledge that on some height this plant and I shared a brain and a form. I saved focused on the fact that a new mother flora flourished here the summer months when nothing else did. I couldn’t ignore the message.

Almost immediately after bringing the dissects into my room I noticed a spectacular alteration. Tips turned dark-green, tiny nubs appeared at stem disfigures; life was returning in the precipitate! All this within a week. This morning when I gaze over at the healthful unfurling leaves I feel amazement, grateful, even a few cases inspires of hope rising. That plant is telling me that although my life may appear to be fraught with difficulties,( live questions remain unsolved) something is happening … at least inside me.

Faith remains an anathema probably due to childhood/ adult abuse- Trust, even in Nature( except in cases of my hounds ), is withheld by some subconscious part of me. And more, the presence of those lettuce seed tips prompt me of words I wrote without understanding “the deep dark-green belief of hope lives on” and it attests in the mind and torso of these floras that are also the thinker and torso of me.

Postscript 😛 TAGEND

Trees flowers and women have been in intimate relationship since the dawning of humankind. In our culture this kind of knowing has been multiplied out of us. However, if we choose to develop relationships with seeds/ trees inside or out and are able to keep an open memory these shocking Beings begin to speak through our the organizations and knowledge. If we listen carefully we will learn which bushes to use in order to help heal ourselves, which floras we need to grow for our feelings/ spiritual/ bodily health. Girls were, of course, the first healers, and we still embody that clevernes. If ever there was a time to develop this relationship on a personal and collective height it is now.

Sara is a naturalist, ethologist( a person who studies animals in their natural environments)( onetime) Jungian Pattern Analyst, and a writer. She publishes her cultivate regularly in a number of different venues and is presently living in Maine.

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