A Morning Prayer

It all started with deadheading a rose. The petals were falling apart in my palm, not good to put in a vase as I originally set out to do. I couldn't bring myself to throw the delicate, lightly scented, soft yellow faint pink edged petals on the burn pile. I came into the house and filled a big glass bowl with water. As I tore off the petals I started chanted "南無阿彌佗佛” (The Reverent Buddha). I didn't know why. I am not a practicing Buddhist and I am drawn to the teachings of all spiritual traditions. The simple act of gently separating the petals and watching them floating on water must have evoked a sense of scarceness and reverence. Maybe that is what a prayer means.

Next to the rose a lupine branch was knocked over, so I pruned it and thought of making a small bouquet. Purple would go with the flaming orange crocosmia which was in full bloom. I thinned a few stems that were crowding each other. Now it needed some filler; tiny cheerful white and yellow fever-fews with their chrysanthemum leaves would be perfect. Then the most perfect poppy caught my eyes. It's blood red paper-thin petals and intricate, complex black heart  took my breath away. I came inside again and looked for a complimentary container. A slender blue chalice Curt recently made was calling out to me. When the flower married the chalice I was moved by the union of the creation of men and the creation of God. Again, I am not a Christian either but I don't know a better word to communicate what I mean. Few days ago I posted some photos of the garden in the morning mist on Facebook. It received a few responses. I think what moved people was the awe and delight in creation, whether it's God's or men's. But unlike Oprah, I don't know that for sure. What I am sure is that I was the witness at the right place, at the right time.