I handed them to her in a see-through sleeve of cellophane, flourished with a slender satin bow. Even without abandoning the sash of purple or thin outer garment, one could plainly see their inner ruddiness and wild, unexpressed containment. Mottled dark and light patches spread across their skin, while tiny green nubs on one end were opposed by tufts of white curiosity, the height and abundance of which varied between them. And on one bulb grew a smaller bulge, its potential for a twin.

It was the kind of simple gift I thought my friend R would appreciate—elegant without pomp, as well as earth connecting. That’s how I saw her too, even before I knew her, when she was immersed then in the gentle waters of that alcove. I sat nearby on the sandy shore for some time attempting to read, but distracted by beauty as I often am. She rose up strong in her form from the murky depths coated in a slip of salt water, laughing, soon tilting her face towards the warm sun.

So obviously gentle and playful, she smiled with shining eyes and then laughed some more that day, her long fingered hands holding her children with tender love. Sometimes splashing one another, or just standing close as they stared at the ripples shimmering in the sunlight, the sunbathers on the big rock, small sailboats weaving far out beyond where any of us could swim. She made me think of mermaids caught between worlds, longing for the experiences of humans while not wanting to betray formless joy. She also made me miss my children whom I had not brought with me there. I felt quietly connected to her as a mother with my own contradictions, reckoning that tension of opposites between root-planting responsibility and truest, forever love on the one side, and freedom on the other.

When she stepped out of the water, tan, lithe, tall, she seemed carefree and confident. I was one of the only ones on the beach that hour of the afternoon and we exchanged a smiling glance and brief hello, which seemed to say plenty about our mutual openness. Meanwhile, her husband also happened to strike up a conversation with my traveling companion as they waited for tables outside that restaurant overlooking our alcove. Soon enough we would all be eating together, swapping stories of life in NY, travel, and more.

Little did any of us know that this chance meeting would guide R and I to be closer in a daily way, and perhaps even more importantly, our young sons whose birthdays were merely months apart. Now four years or so after that first chance meeting, I would find myself bringing my gifts wrapped in cellophane to her just a quick jaunt from my own home where she now lives with her family, or in truth, mostly alone with her son. Intentionally close enough so that our youngest children can grow near one another, as well as us. 3 bulbs of paperwhites for each of us so they can grow close by too, each containing the potential for an expansion of life and bold discovery, potent enticement, wonder, and unabashed beauty.

I placed mine in separate vessels—hand painted cocktail glasses—and set them on adjacent window sills in my kitchen to be adored by the sun. And each day I have diligently changed out the water they wade in, high above their womanly curves. I had not grown bulbs before in this way, instead usually setting the likes of daffodils, irises, and peonies directly into dark soil each fall so they can awaken in the spring. Without instruction, I let my instincts guide me here by immersing these new bulbs generously into water instead, and those tiny tufts of white and green soon shot past tentative explorations. An unruly and elaborate root system 8” or so long spread out below, while a multitude of green probes emerged out of rounded forms. But the real exponential growth only happened after their transference to a much larger abode, where within they were placed tightly next to one another. Perhaps it was through their intimate contact, rounded hip to rounded hip, reaching down as well as up and up, and out, that they could finally feel confident to express themselves.

Almost two feet of stalky, verdant tentacles have since risen and filled my window, several bursting into white clusters of perfumed stars. They possess a joyful extravagance that seems so determined to be expressed. And too quickly, for they can barely hold themselves upright, drunk as they seem to be with Life. Like me, they seem to be so excited to burst forth, to work incessantly to grow. I am concerned they will exhaust themselves too quickly and the metaphor is not lost on me.

I run between the world of my family, the messy, complex, passionate beauty of all that, to the world I have co-created with a close group of sister friends where we weekly hold space with other women, allow for creative and emotional expression, dance, do breathwork, cry, and laugh from the belly. At the end of this season with a particularly heavy work schedule (professionally and emotionally/creatively), I admit my home (too) could use a deep cleaning. It would also serve me well to take a day to pay bills, get my paperwork in order and other priorities I have told myself I have been too busy for. I will add though, my family feels generally peaceful and connected to one another. And in my kitchen, between spirited conversations, too many dishes, endless cups of tea and meals prepared, I make sure I steal a moment daily to breathe in the gifts of my paperwhites, swooning with their jasminy potency and reckless I-don’t-care-what-season-it-is- and-how-much-I-”have”-to-do clawing to express themselves.

+++++

I haven’t been seeing enough of my friend R lately, in spite of our proximity. I have justified this by thinking that we are both simply too busy. But silently I have brushed away fears that she has been spending too much time alone, or that we might be drifting apart. Last week I traveled past the full moon and through the dark night to visit her, hoping to catch a glimpse of her mermaid’s heart's longings, and the watery, wild depths she holds within. Her house is not dusty, and her bills and records, I assume like her closets, are probably very well organized. Not very mermaid-y, I thought…wondering how she reconciles this as I approached her front steps, holding warm homemade soup in a container in one cold hand, and with the other pulling my hood closer to avert winter’s chill.

Inside, her son demanded more attention than usual, flopping across her noisily on the couch where we soon sat trying to confide in each other about our lives. Well, to be honest, I tried to do a bit of confiding, while R listened thoughtfully and simultaneously comforted and validated her son. N kept playing his new flute in a forceful and jarring way, though, as if trying to distract us and intentionally make it difficult for us to connect. I soon stopped speaking and asked her how she was, even if I knew that she would be reluctant to share, whether her son was in the room or not.

Usually so mature, thoughtful and polite, N kept at his flute, laying across her, interrupting, a convenient ruse to keep her from having to let her deeper truths spill out into the air between us. Otherwise she would have simply set him up with something upstairs, and requested a few well deserved minutes alone. He finally rounded the corner but chose to remain within earshot, as if intentionally wanting to prevent the support she really needed, but was afraid to indulge.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning closer. “But I actually don’t even want to complain. I know what I have to do to change my life, and I don’t want to burden you. I’m really ok. I am not a victim. I don’t want either of us to see me that way.”

I didn’t tell her what I should have: that I could only see a mermaid in disguise.

Her words reminded me of a quote I had read earlier in the day by Zach Bush: “Isolation is perhaps the singular root of all disease. It is impossible to start on a healing mission alone,” but I couldn’t remember his exact words. I fumbled with my own instead, “Sharing your feelings is not a burden, it’s an honor. It all deserves to be expressed, for us to feel we are supported by one another. That’s how women, especially, thrive. How many times have I cried on this couch?” but she was shaking her head, brushing my words aside, repeating, “But it’s ok. It’s been three years of this. I know what I need to do.”

I wondered, what if she really did just need to be alone, to go inward until she arrives at her own answers and exact moment she needs to bolt in her particular way? Certainly not all of our processes are the same, or should be. And I have much to learn from the ways she steps more gently and patiently than I do, and is more methodical…

Suddenly I noticed her paperwhites slumped and emaciated in three separate glass jars, with only a tiny bit of water and nearly out of reach, repressed blooms of shoots and roots only just barely emerging, without direct and body-felt contact with one another. Narcissus papyraceus, named after Narcissus, the hunter from Thespiae, known for his beauty, who supposedly rejected all romantic advances, eventually, alone, fell in love with his own reflection in a pool of water, staring at his own image for the remainder of his life.

But what if that wasn’t the only version of the story? What if Narcissus, like so many, chose to be alone for a time because he was rejecting amorous, devoted love, in order to better understand self-love and himself? To eventually more fully, authentically, embrace true love of another, (romantically or platonically) a kind of love that reflects and even enhances all that he is- with its beautiful work-in-progress imperfections? That time of forced or at least socially pressured unions as reflected in that myth was not so very long ago. It is what many still feel, and especially when there are children involved, staying far too long in unhealthy dynamics “for the sake of the family.”

What if when that myth was written down, the world was not yet ready to appreciate the importance of exploring independence and self-love not out of “narcissism” but for the wisdom that comes from being still with one’s burdens, while in loving and honest community—— without confinement, commitment, or ownership? What if Narcissus, like me and my flowers, and R and hers, was simply doing his best to live and grow with all the contradictory and complex reflections all around- growing down, up and sideways- or for a time, not so much at all. And too, maybe he needed a reminder of the healing that honest connection brings from dearest ones, a reminder of the wild and joyous natures we hold in our inner oceans. I thought of the Mayan greeting In Lakech Ala K’in/ I am the other you. Maybe the real story of Narcissus and of our flowers is that they are merely serving as reminders of our important and delicious fumbling to express ourselves, find others safe enough to lean on and remind us of our dreams and true nature, if and when we are root bound or the waters we crave feel out of reach.

-end-

Paperwhites

Travels, stays, (mostly stays these days) explorations of the heart and life.