I want to write about
the art
opening
but this morning is overcast
with spelling test drills
the seven continents of the world
and reading mastery assignments
I guess it gets to continue
to settle in my cells
thick oil on hung canvases
salad bowls of chocolate chunks
Jeb
the Bohemian
and a roomful of surfers in dress-up clothes
smiling at the process
the opening
of art
In this morning’s early light, I wake from a dream scattered with jewels. It melds with yesterday’s visit to Mary’s garden, where the chard grew four feet tall in emerald greens. The roselle buds shone, multi-faceted, in ruby reds.
There I saw farmers making trades. A glass jar of fresh cow’s milk (“if you look you’ll see the cream is golden”) in exchange for Roma tomato starts. It was there among the treasures of the earth where I caressed the surface of the cactus.
Mary gave a tour to the Bohemian and I, our hands spilling over with riches. Bouquets of arugulla, handfuls of tarragon and an armload of Tahitian limes. In the corner garden, where Mary grows her comfort foods of basil and eggplant, cacti guard the fence line, reaching heights double my size. We talk about their rapid rate of growth.
“Oh, come here. You guys will love this,” she says, as Mary walks to the end of the cacti row and bends down to sit with one of the pale green succulents.
She holds a rounded disk of cactus flesh between her hands, softly rubbing it with care.
“This is the Luther Burbank cactus, named after a man named from California. He wanted to grow a cactus that didn’t have any spines.”
True, the cactus before us shows the scattered marks from where typical needle spines would grow, but they are empty, the surface smooth.
“So the story goes that Luther would sit with the cactus as it was growing and talk to it and tell it, ‘You don’t need to grow any spines. You’re safe here. There’s nothing to guard against.'”
Mary’s fingers, graced with red dirt, trace the outline of the Luther Burbank, her voice repeating his mantra with sweetness.
“And you see, this cactus ended up growing without any spikes. It is the spineless cactus.”
Six hands extend to cactus skin, our fingers freely scanning its soft surface. We each are smiling, enjoying the delight of being able to be this close. To cross the cacti line of defense, no danger of injury.
And so it is now, in this pre-dawn light, that I have rolled out of bed, away from the warm side of the Bohemian.
A naked cactus and the thesaurus are calling me.
With quiet footsteps I prepare my morning coffee. Light the sandalwood incense and come to my familiar writing chair.
I find the many adjectives that describe the state of being spineless: weak-kneed, faint-hearted, namby-pamby, lily-livered, chicken-hearted, yellow-bellied, wimpy, sissy, gutless.
Yes, I know them all and I’ve flared my spiny protection in response to all the fear.
So now, in the purple, grey light that comes through the windows, my computer screen illumines me in full exposure. For the first time in 300 some odd posts to the Archives, there is a man in my bed as I write.
This is private, but I’m telling you.
Telling you in praise of the spineless cactus. Luther Burbank speaks low with love.
There is beauty in vulnerability. Soft can be strong.
That maybe, really, truly, there is nothing to guard against.
That even a cactus can be cuddled.
Already I was feeling prosperous.
At home there was a big pot of vegetable barley soup on the stove. Banana-chocolate-chip-walnut muffins were fresh from the oven. It was a Sunday morning at the beach, with surf that threw waves on the sand, making pools deep enough for Jeb to float (or cannonball).
There was a blue sky with cotton ball clouds, accented by the circling of angelic white, long-tailed Tropic birds. Once in a while they’d swoop low above us. There was me, and the Bohemian Lover that sat at my side. The bird’s heads moving, quickly scanning us below, clicking calls from their throats, then gliding away.
I hummed a Feist song, “Cicadas and Gulls”, (I’m in the sky, sky, sky, sky…I’m in the sky, sky, sky) while the Bohemian held my thumb, intently removing an old embedded bee stinger with single-pointed thoroughness. And, once removed, kissed the empty space where it had been.
Jeb and his friend were nearby, relocating beach weeds to create a new ecosystem of greenery and pools from a nearby waterfall and stream.
Looking North, there was nothing but ocean and horizon. Waves that never ceased. Our bare skin was warmed in the late October sun.
So when it was time to go home, I was feeling to be a wealthy woman as I left the Lover, the birds, the sun and surf. I was still humming as I gathered the young boys and we began the stroll back to the car.
And then the goddess washed up at my feet.
Well, technically, she was embedded in the sand – just a bit – like any self-respecting buried treasure would be.
Yes, there it was. A golden coin, about 2.5 inches in diameter, peeking up from the wet shoreline. Engraved on one side, was the Hindu goddess Lakshmi (Gaja Lakshmi, to be exact) where she sat upon a lotus flower flanked by elephants and imparting gifts with her four hands. The coin’s other side was carved in Sanskrit in the shape of a bursting sun of light.
Jeb was in awe. “It’s gold!”
His friend inched closer to peer at the coin which was now in Jeb’s tight grip.
“We’re rich, Mom! This is gold. It’s worth a million dollars!”
“Mmm…it looks gold. I don’t know if it’s real gold…”
“Don’t say that. No. It is. For real!”
His friend: “Yeah, it looks like real gold…”
We continue walking, the boys side by side, studying the coin, taking in the mystery. I’m smiling, still in the sky, sky, sky, sky…now with even a little more sparkle to the magic I feel.
At day’s end, after soup and muffins, I do a little Lakshmi study:
Gajalakshmi represents prosperity, happiness and luck, and is the Goddess who brought back all the wealth lost by Indra, the King of Devas (demi Gods). The giver of animal wealth like cattle and elephants, Gajalaxmi is the fourth of the eight aspects of Ashtalakshmi, or the eight aspects of the Goddess Laxmi.
Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, happiness and beauty emerged from the ocean of milk when the Gods churned it to produce Amrita (divine nectar) and she at once became Vishnu’s consort. She is pictured as an ideal of slim-waist, full breasted feminine beauty. When she is depicted separately from Vishnu as in this case, she has four hands: in two of them she is holding lotus flowers, while the other two bestow the gifts of well-being and prosperity. Lakshmi is said to reside in sweet-smelling floral garlands which bring fortune and wealth to the wearer. She also has a role as a fertility goddess and is particularly linked to the richness of the soil.
(source: http://www.goddessgift.net/lakshmi-gajalaksmi-brass-OM-BST156.html)
Wealth comes in so many forms. A healthy body, a bowl of warm soup, the vision of a bird in flight. The look of wonder on my son’s face. A kind man removing a bee sting from my finger.
And if life wants to offer a golden coin from the goddess of prosperity to wash up at my feet, so be it.
For those days when I’m feeling downright in the dumps and desolate, I’ll soak up these reserves. Let it permeate my cells. Fill up with the golden love. Vow to shine it all around.
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