Time for my walk, but I could not tie my shoes. My tremor stutter hand would not work. Shoe in my lap, eyes closed, I asked the little one inside my spirit if she remembered learning to tie her shoes. I didn't always know how to tie shoes. Perhaps if I remembered how I learned I could figure a way to tie my shoes now.
Resting upon the water windows of time I floated back through all the images and albums. I remember the sound of sea gulls and waves at sunrise. I remember once, just once, feeling cute. I remember being loved. I remember love. I remember when to awake meant another day to love and share. I remember the sound of my father's voice. I remember running for miles and miles. I remember the sound of 'hello.' I remember my grandfather teaching me to honor and bow to the forest before you enter. I remember hands that danced with words and eyes that could read. I remember laughter and songs that left me breathless. I remember the feel of my knees as I bowed in awe, wonder and grace. I remember the squeaking sound of feet walking along the beach at night and the sound of unseen waves. I could not, however, remember how I learned to tie my shoes.
As I put my shoes away, a promise to the little one inside and to my heart, we shall never take for granted the precious moments of 'I remember.' I didn't always know beauty, love, waves and grace. But I learned and I remember. Bowing my head, I gave thanks for the grace of having known, and in knowing, to remember. And so my little one and I walked barefoot in the yard instead, a walk I will remember.
Quietly I ponder the difference between the thorns of a rose bush and those of a cactus. You know how quickly the delicate petals of a rose fall to the ground. Once opened so quickly they drop. The thorns of a rose bush point downward, as if to point to their gentle loss and beauty so brief. The cactus with its long defiant thorns point upwards. The cactus thorns point upward defying anyone or anything to touch either the gentle bloom or their petals which hold the precious water. Rose bushes require tending and depend upon the rains of life to sustain them, and they grow into full bushes. The cactus has learned to survive in drought, heat and hardened waterless earth, so often in a solitary stance.
Perhaps the rose offers such a lasting sweet fragrance, wide long arms, and downward pointing thorns, to remind us how precious and sweet, yet brief, life can be. That we must tend, water and prune, yet, even with the tending, the delicate petals will fall. Acceptance. The cactus in drought, with its oasis of water filled green petals and upward pointing thorns, remind us to look upward and mindful of where we walk but fearing not the heated hardened earth and drought nor the quite solitude of presence, life is green and even dryness yields a flower. Faithfulness.
To walk mindfully knowing both the brevity and steadfastness of Life. To walk mindfully seeing both the upward thorns of the cactus and the fallen petals of the rose. To look upward towards the sun of Life that sometimes feels as if it is baking and drying up our souls, and yet we see the blooms and our thirst is quenched. And, with a giggle and smile, should we lose our walk lose its mindfulness, Life sends a sharp poke through our "soles" to bring us back to attention.
