We have been trying to take Poppy into the nearby meadow for days and days. The afternoon showers prevented us, and as we watched the water scurry down the long living room windows, our hearts sank thinking of yet another day. Hapless girls we sat, and waited and waited.
Then the rains at sunset stop. The air got crisp in the mornings, full of dew and rust. The woodpeckers and the crows upped the ante of their songs. The goldenrod turned technicolor and we knew: our time had come.
Poppy was mesmerized by the birds. I just followed her lead. She stopped to listen, to gather this or that, while mumbling to herself a song. I wished I could understand her words, as some days she does speak a different language, and I am too coy to ask her what it is.
At first the light was dark and heavy, impregnating our hearts with trepidation and sorrow with thoughts of yet more showers. But the air was charged with a different kind of electricity, the power of healing so Poppy mentioned. While gathering her plants, she told me stories about ancient rituals and medicines, now belonging to the past, out of use and mostly mocked. Deemed either unsanitary or unsightly, said simple medicine, an ailment to the poor but wise, had fallen out of favour as centuries went by. Weeds we now call them, plants of inferior stand to which we grant moral weakness. But Poppy loves them. She thrives around them.
I wondered why Poppy was telling me all this. Her demeanour reminded me of May-Mei-Mae, another friend, who came one day and made me feel better yet I didn't know I was feeling bad. Poppy however talked to me of a different healing, not just of letting go, but of the healing that comes with realizing life's shortness. How trivial everything is. How important our beliefs and opinions become to us, yet they are nothing. We defend them as we defend a patch of soil, which does not belong to us. We become so possessive of our belief system that it hinders a life lived in freedom. We attach ourselves to people, to animals, to our belongings, looking for wisps of life to hold on to. It seemed rather desperate when Poppy put it like that, but I guess is part of our human condition. Of living inside a material body, and be made of light within.
To witness the descent of life into the depths of Winter grabs your heart and stirs you to the core. It is not only a passing, but a cycle. Over and over again. As in life, we go through experiences over and over again, unbidden many times until we are able to overcome our sorrows, our wisps of attachment, our need for approval. Such obstinacy is good I believe, because most of us need the constant visitation of the past, in order to grasp the future.
I told a friend not too long ago how my last few dolls have turned a page inside me. I wasn't anticipating this re-birth of sorts, and I am still trying to figure out where it is taking me. But a lot of my obstinate behaviours have come up very clear for me, and through working on Poppy and the things her mother-to-be has shared with me, I have found transmutation.
Poppy and I sat quietly in this meadow. I cut a few wildflowers and made attempts at yet another wreath for her. A symbol of rebirth. A circle. A cycle. She loves them. And as if by magic the light changed. The golden hour was upon us, imbuing everything with the warmth of the parting sun.
We came back home, sat under the shade of the trees, and watched the Sun go down. It was a beautiful evening with Poppy and her magic to appease my heart.