Juncture Planting....

Filling my container this week.  

In meditation I found a container that looked like a small fissure in an extensive root system.  My imagination gave me a thin, long, flexible flashlight that allowed me to see what was inside the fissure.  Initially, I did not want to look. And then the meditation ended.  The next day I returned to that spot and I looked inside.  It was dark and dank. I found the edges of the container in the dirt and lifted it up.  It opened-- it had a hinge of some sort. I saw it was full of gritty gunk. I wasn't sure what to do.  Do I leave all that alone? Do I clean it out? Do I analyze it?  My meditation-mind made the decision to use my hands to dig out the dirt and whatever else was inside.  I didn't see the necessity of inspecting the contents.  I simply decided to clean it out.  I rinsed it in the dark water that was nearby and then closed it up. The fissure was still there (akhilanda--never not broken).  I set it back down within the root system, where I found it. And then I proceeded to pour some sort of dust and seeds into the crack. I returned to this spot in my meditation again yesterday.  I continued to pour some dust into the crack. This time, though, there was a strange salve that emerged on the outside of that container.  I lifted up the container and slowly poured the salve into a bottle.  My meditation-mind was telling me that I would need it later.

This week has also been about filling the raised flower container in my yard.  Filling that space felt similar to those meditative moments in which I was simultaneously cleaning out and filling up. Sure, there was dirt in the container, but it was time for something more. I was not planting seeds or pouring dust. I was planting root systems. Planting in the juncture between summer and early fall felt a little out of place.  But juncture is about paying attention to the disjunctures--the open and disjointed spaces that try to tell us something deeper about ourselves.  These moments are the times our unconscious reaches out to the conscious world to try to teach us something about our patterned (re)actions. 

And planting so close to the time of bloom and harvest was a way to pay special attention to the disjunctures going on within me.  The need to tend to the creative blooms developing right now.

As I picked the plants that would go into my container, I did not think about horticultural rules. I don't really know them.  I thought about the types of plants I wanted. I thought about the colors. And I thought about how much I wanted to put together an organic and chaotic mix of things to see how they fit together (not unlike my creative research).  It was intuitive.  I wanted sage to clear the space and create a beautiful smell and color.  I wanted hastas to express fullness in the garden.  I picked echinacae because they have a simple grace to them that I enjoy.  The day lily rests in the middle for the attention it deserves. 

My container is a beautiful space that I marked out and created. The planting work is done. Now for the work of stillness, as I wait and watch for the blooms. Let the internal work take over. Let the roots find a home. 

The day lily's blooms popped out a beautiful yellow this morning.  

Metaphors are wonderful things. They help convey an emerging world. A world not yet understood.  They help the unconscious communicate--if we want to listen. I look out at the garden box and do not see anything that is contained in the sense of restraint.  I see things that are being asked to mingle and co-habitate in a way they hadn't before.  What a wonderful metaphor for my summer journey as I transition into early fall.  

I see me in that container. I see the work of letting several research endeavors rest together, so I can look at them as a whole. Trying to establish grounding amidst the chaos growing and tangling together.   Many parts of a singular whole.  Will they fit together? I'm not entirely sure.  For some things, all I can do is lay the groundwork, thoughtfully, and then surrender.  

As much as I try to claim the container as mine, I know it has a life beyond me. And I know the work involved is happening in the literal and metaphorical universe. Control is finite.  I'm simply doing my best to nurture this container, embrace it, and accept it for what it is--and what it isn't.  


















Metaphors are wonderful things.