from
the sea (5) – merging and menopause, flower storm, part 2 of 2, by freda karpf
Flowers in all their colors and come
hithers emerged from the background of green.
The gods were plentiful as pollen and offered different petals and
perfumes for every feeling.
~
The river of new thoughts is raw and
green. Woman.
~
Yesterday, the next day, flowers. When did she last get this gift? How like the river to pull in the soil from
this bank and then the other. It all
goes into the flow but just here, just now, it settled and stopped her. The eddies and currents, silk ridges with
slicks of rainbow opens her to its beauty.
~
The quiet talks she had
with Baubo were a turn of consciousness, a way to be with what had deep
meaning, and is often, by herself or helped along with the world and the
dailies, wiped away. Why is it that what
seems so essential, and even, elemental, is so often pushed to the margins of
our lives?
~
The only wildness she knew…
~
She wanted connection. To swim. To sink. It's not a case of wanting,
it's happening. Sweet, sensual spring. ‘Woman’, she says. ‘You are my spring.’ She remembered each time
there was contact and heat. How
impossible and yet completely delightful and unexpected these feelings. Spring was now her focus and she was fully
given over to its excesses and tenderness.
That is a ripe parallel for her in her menopause. Not the pause that refreshes. The paws that combed through your being
trying to reawaken you. The trick of
that spring was that she had a growing tenderness. She was undone. The smell of her lover on the beaded
necklace. Isn't this earth too? Her lips full and aching. All passion and no
purpose. Her skin melts. A dam of want
and desire.
~
This year spring is meant to
be something more than her passion for flowers. The deep midnight blue of
lobelia is her favorite. It takes her
breath away. Until another flower comes along. Gazanias!
Nemesia. In the supermarket,
apparently her favorite place for sensual pleasures, she was selecting
apricots. Their softness, their color
seeped into her skin and flowed in her veins.
What the Foodtown security people do in cases like this?
~
If you ask her on a hot day
full of sun she’ll probably tell you that gazanias are her favorite
flower. They're the sun, the plains,
warmest Africa, fire. But did she ever
tell you about lantana? The smallest
flowers. Indelible imprints in your
chest, they create a sweet pain. One day
when all settles down she hopes to be a sweet pain for someone as well.
~
She went to the supermarket
at lunchtime. They have a small but very
good flower department. The red roses
got to her. Roses haven't always spoken
to her before. She let her finger wind
through the petals to the center. She
thought afterwards that it was a sweet time and her passion was probably helping
her find her way toward the center. What a visceral connection between a rose
and a woman. Her name rose to her lips. She wrote her, ‘You are my
spring.’ There is always a spring we
remember. What an awakening. As warmly
as she felt towards her this feeling also belonged to something deep within
that wants to be said, to be poetry, to be out in the world, as spring should
be. ‘You are my spring and the only
wildness I know is the distraction of you.’
~
This is M. M means menopause.
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