I'm
being held hostage this Spring and don't send a ransom. I've been
captured and enraptured by a tulip tree. For fifteen years, day in and
day out, I've walked and driven past this tree. For fifteen Springs, it
has faithfully stood alongside my driveway, but this is only the second
time in its life that it's flourished with sweet smelling blossoms.
Usually a sudden Southern frost brings to an abrupt end the colorful life emerging. Then as summer ensues, green leaves replace dead blooms.
Earlier this week, the tree was covered in rich purple buds reminiscent
of my grandmother's lipstick samples kept tucked in a wooden box on her
dressing table. The little white tubes held mesmerizing colors. Then
overnight it seemed the buds began to open, each at its own pace, a
beautiful natural ballet. I found myself wishing I could open to life
the way the buds were with seeming trust and grace.
This
morning to my surprise, the blossoms were in various stages of
reopening after having been closed for the night. I was struck by the
fluidity of this process, the opening and closing, the back and forth.
How is that for fifteen years I've missed the tulip tree teacher until this week? Is it because I've valued the external show over the internal spirit of the little tree? It's taught such tenacity spring after spring, freeze after freeze.
It is said, "When the student is ready, the teacher appears."
Teachers surround us and we are unaware. Nature
quietly goes about its business teaching not preaching, showing us
quietly how to live and die, trust the process of life.
Imagine the
shift if we showed up for this class every day!
-The Tulip Tree & Dawn, the Good News Muse,
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