I’ve written before about that poem, and today I’m thinking about what my soul might look like. I believe it might be like this rose, with pink tips, a glowing white center, and layers and layers of petals, each complicated and imperfect. It is, at least, most like a flower because the general motion of my life has been unfolding. Not onward or downward, not a spiral or a flight, but an unfolding.
When a rose blooms, she gives more–more fragrance, more color, more beauty–and she receives more from the world around her–heat, insects, lingering fingers and noses pressing in to breathe in her loveliness.
I hear my walls crumble and I feel my petals unfolding, like muscles relaxing. I believe this is good. I am surprised to find vulnerability so sound. I want to keeping going. I will trust this process because my eyes are captured by Who they see.