The Rose

Our inner and outer world can reveal our soul.

I was having a constant fantasy. My mind kept circling around images - mounds of dark purple, blue, lavender and pink blossoms - bulk tea blends I had seen in spice markets in Turkey. Most tantalizing were the small red rose buds, about the size of a child’s thumbnail. I brought some home, as prized possessions, and boiled the precious flowers into teas that I drank obsessively. I savored other bright red blends for their tart hibiscus. I gave packages of these treasures to some friends and now I didn’t want to run out so I searched the internet to buy more. Amazon didn’t have these amazing blends!

I talked about the teas with Rick. He marveled at my fervor as I described the huge orange-red pomegranate flowers I craved. I showed him my dwindling package of the red rose buds. Why did these teas have such a hold on my mind and heart? I was religious about drinking them and loved adding lots of honey.

I was also gripped by the food from Turkey and was determined to make some of the amazing mezze (appetizers) we had loved. I experimented with new ingredients – bulgar, fresh and dried fava beans, pomegranate molasses and Aleppo pepper. I worked diligently on an “authentic Turkish menu” and invited two dear friends for lunch. I also had little bags of gorgeous teas for Judy and Alice. They had brought gifts for me too, locally grown tea and a small potted rose plant.

After learning that I only planted native pollinator plants in our garden, Alice offered to take the rose back and find me something else. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I can give it to a neighbor.” But afterwards I was surprised by my strong feelings. I didn’t want to give away the little rose plant. I would find a container for it. Like the tea, this rose plant pulled at me. What was it? Roses conjured the feminine, the receptive. I was such a relentless worker and the tea and plant offered simple beauty and nurturing. For years my dicipline was nettle tea for my allergies and I planted mountain mint for the bees. I never thought of tea or flowers just for fun, just for me. Were my daydreams part of my soul calling for rest and mothering? Meanwhile, each night I dreamt of being on retreat. Was some part of my soul “retreating” from my ambitions and my rigorous daily regime? My heart shouted “yes” to the question as I gazed upon the rose now planted in a gorgeous cement vase.

I wondered about Rick’s passion for our lawn. What might his daydreams about it reveal?

What are your daydreams telling you about your inner life?