R.I.P. My Friend, the Thistle

R.I.P. My Friend, the Thistle

            Each day as part of the Seminary of the Wild virtual retreat we were invited to go out onto the land. We were instructed to find a portal, something we could cross over or ask permission of in order to begin our wanderings. These portals are important because they help us shift from our ordinary time into the mysterious, where we don’t know what might happen.

            On the first day of my wanderings at Erwin Park in McKinney, as I walked from my car, I saw a thistle plant standing tall above the surrounding grasses. I was drawn to this particular thistle plant and went over to look at her.  The thistle had one bud at the top of the stem and a smaller one coming forth from a lower branch. Thistles are fast growing plants and I knew I would enjoy coming each day to see what new growth she had had. I looked at the leaves with their thorny edges and saw the small spikes running up the stem. A beautiful plant but one I didn’t want to touch.  I would simply admire her beauty.

I knew this would be my portal. I introduced myself to the thistle as Wild Mustang, a Wanderer on a journey to where I don’t know. I told the thistle I would be coming everyday this week and that I wanted to encounter the Earth with new eyes, new mind, and new heart. I wanted to step out of the world of tasks, busyness and stress and enter into a time of presence, of being with her and all her fellow creatures. “Will you let me come?” I asked. I stood there a while. The thistle said yes. I entered the woods.

Every day of the six-day virtual retreat, before I began my wandering in the woods, I would go to the thistle. First, I admired how she had grown. I looked to see how much her bud had opened. I saw the purple of the flower slowly appearing. I watched other buds begin to set on other branches, a total of four. I would stand in her presence, not rushing to get on with the wandering. Rushing was the mindset I was trying to leave behind. I took several deep breaths, looked at her, gazed around at the park, and asked permission to cross over. She was so gracious. She always said yes.

In the weeks following the virtual retreat, one of the things I looked forward to on my weekly wandering in Erwin Park was checking on the thistle. She continued to grow taller. Her purple flower at the top was now fully opened. The other buds began to bloom. Here was life unfolding, blooming right before me in this one dear friend. I would always talk to her, admire her, and ask permission. She always said yes.

Then one week I went to Erwin Park for my wandering and I quickly noticed that the large field I crossed to get to the woods had been bush hogged, cut down to a five-inch height. My immediate response was Oh! No! I knew what had happened to the thistle. Part of me wanted to run and see and part of me wanted to not get there too quickly. I walked to the spot where the thistle had been. It was gone with no sign remaining that she had ever been there. I felt grief. I was not angry at the men who had bush hogged or the city that ordered it done. I knew they had their reasons. This is still a city park. But I did feel grief, the loss of a friend who had journeyed with me these last few weeks, who had bloomed before me, and given me the yes I needed to enter into the mystery.

I found another portal, another entrance from the everyday into the mysterious but not before simply sitting with the grief. My first thought was “See what happens. You bloom only to be cut down. Life’s not fair.” What I was hearing in that was be careful. Don’t stand up too tall. Don’t put yourself out there and up there. You will be cut down. Someone will decide you need to go.

Then, as I sat with those words, I realized this does not honor the thistle and her life. She gave herself to the life she had. She grew. She bloomed where she had been planted. Somehow, she called me over to see her, to know her, to love her. She said yes, yes, yes to me. She invited me to enter into this life of mystery, where you never know who you will meet. She did not live thinking of her death. She lived focused on the life that was in her.

May you and I bloom without regard to what may happen to us in our blooming. May we grow and shoot forth new blooms because life is calling us. We may be cut down, perhaps even because we had the audacity to bloom. May this never stop us from blooming. The seeds we scatter are critical for the next generation of bloomers. The example we set may inspire those around us to come and see and enter with us into the mystery of this thing we call life.