A little girl brought me a rose and it seemed to be magical. I saw in it not simply a rose but a cry and a smile, a prophecy, and a question: what has become of my future?
I saw in this intricate, sublime and holy pattern of petals, like vulva upon vulva so delicately perfumed so as to haunt body and mind, a vessel created out of its own being, each curve, each fold, each particularity perfect in a dance as whole, as a symbol of all that is worth dreaming of and living for – the ground wherein the rose will grow.
And as I beheld the flower, tears were drawn up from a well inside me, a swelling, soaring crying inside of me. I had been holding on for days, and at that very moment, at my hand, an open page, my mind and body an open book, I read of a memory, a memory of ten million fish that would churn and arouse the waters for a long day as they came in. And in the sound of that in-coming memory a doorway was opened inside of me, body and mind, and the vast everything reached in and took my hand.
What has become of my hope?
The red rose, too pink to be a symbol of the blood I no longer bleed, its magenta akin to the laughing smile of a child, or a bleeding heart, the ache of the wound and the tending of which can become a great power of love, this rose spoke to me of another memory: that there would be some who would take that feeling, these words, this hope, my intention, and still twist it all into a sadistic need to justify the ritual pain and destruction. To destroy the whole through the part, as if the biome of our being was just a state of mind and not an earthy, moist and feeling, gasping, loving animal reality. And there, the rose showed me her sorrow. The little girl grown, aging, decaying. The rose opening, bursting, seeding, decaying. For some, that was terrifying, so terrifying it must be rendered, essentialised, the life extracted, the body controlled, squeezed, tested, made subordinate, spiritual, its shifting forms punished and denied, starved, desensitised.
No.
My tears silvered the velvet of her petals.
My rose would not sit here gathering dust. She, and the little girl who gave her to me, and the little ever-living girl inside of me, would open and bloom and give and sigh and decay, and together we would inhale the perfume of the dance and die back, back, again and again, spiralling into the greater body, enlarged, giving and growing, back, back, returned to the origin, to the ground, the body, the great giving body – the one reality we all know and have denied.
If a rose can whisper, she whispered to me, her hope carried in perfume: ‘Do not be afraid. I enfold your wounds. Breathe, unfold, and bloom. Give. Love.’
To give and to love are the dreams of Earth living through us. Let us dream, and love. Together.
(Meet Mago Contributor) Louise M Hewett.