Seeds, Plant Death, and Journeying

​If you would like to listen along

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​

​There are seeds
in my juice. 

​
And
my house plants are
dying. 

(I promise, this will all make sense soon.)
​

 It has been the kind of months 
 where no matter what fresh and unsullied paths I've forged,

​   again and again,
​

​I inevitably find myself at rocky bends
​tripping,
scuffing knees, 
and breathing in a schnoz
full of mud. 
All figuratively speaking, of course 
(although, with the 2019 mole hills of misfortune,
​my cynicism anticipates some actual spills
may be forthcoming).

I am amazed--and mildly disappointed with myself--
in how the slightest twists of my own plans can feel wholly defeating some days;
and how the seeds in my juice and the withering plants in my house
​can feel like the offensive sprinkles and sour cherry 
on top.

These obnoxious and clunky moments on the paths I forge,
do not make my paths sullied themselves. 
These moments are integral to the path.
They are my spirited guides
who greet me along the way 
​with a sweet abrasive divulgence:
that it is better to risk founding my course,
and to acquiesce its inescapable offenses,
than to never venture.  
​They are my junctures 
to greater knowledge of self soothing, 
so that the equally inevitable mountains of troubles 
can be scaled more swiftly
with the help of the formative self-care practices
used through the mole hill stumbling blocks.

In cliche summation: The journey is worthy of creating and traversing, not in spite of, but because of its falls, scuffles, and faces full of mud;and how I care for myself and others through them. Because isn't self-care an extension of self-love? 
And isn't a part of this human journey to exercise love in all forms?
For my human journey, my answer is, yes.

​So, in the name of Self-love,
I practice.
I pick myself up, 
balm my wounds, 
take some breaths,
water my plants,
remove the seeds from my orange juice
--without eradicating all of the winsome pulp,
no doubt--
and swallow with gratitude:
​for that salutary honeyed cup,
the journey it took to find me on my paths,
​and the small role I played to make the cup taste that much sweeter.

May your juice be seedless, and your house plants thrive, my friends!

When those mole hills feel like mountains,or the mountains present themselves, 
may you continue to forge your paths and practice your acts of self-care--no matter how small the acts--as the tiniest portrayals of self-love are often the inoffensive sprinkles and cherries (with just the right amount of tartness)
on top.

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