I Talk to Flowers

I talk to flowers. Yes, you heard me, I talk to flowers. No, I am not crazy. I am not on drugs. Well I consider flowers to be my drug of choice.  Flowers are intoxicating. I get high from being in their presence. I have found that when I am anxious about my life, worrying about a myriad of things that my mind is stuck on repeat, you know the never-ending loop of worries that our brains like to obsess over?  

I stop, take a deep breath, well many deep breaths because I realize suddenly that I am absolutely NOT breathing, but rather holding my breath, gripping my tummy, my shoulders are up to my ears, preparing for the imminent attack that my amygdala has alarmed me to prepare for...I grab my basket, my soft leather glowes, my favorite purple handled snippers, and run for my garden.

It is here, in the plot of land, where a cathedral of Oaks died that I rebirthed them into a magnificient garden of sunflowers, anemones, dahlias, zinnias, cosmos, corncockle, baby's breath, hollyhocks, delphinium, bachelor buttons, cress, love in a mist and calendula to name a few.

These newborn flowers are my friends.  I nurture them, pulling the weeds that try to dominate them,watering their roots, feeding them kelp from the sea and compost tea so that they receive the love that they so freely bestow upon all who walk past.  

 Flowers are not silent, they are wise and have sage advice if you listen. All I have to do is be present, show up and surrender. I pour out my woes of the moment and then I listen.   They are compassionate, patient and funny. 

At the end of my conversation, I usually have found an antidote to whatever ailed me and or have forgotten what I was worried about to begin with.