Bee: When you’re hanging on by a thread, stop and rest awhile. 
Reflection: Be careful not to judge others — things may not be the way they appear to you. 
Chrysanthemum: Mum’s the word when someone shares something with you in confidence. 
Magnolia bud: Not everything can be seen as either/or; juxtapositions exist side by side. 
Pod: Vulnerability is letting your heart be exposed. 
Rhododendron bud: When you hold someone too close they are not free to flower: love by letting go. 
Waterfall: If you stop struggling you’ll eventually pop up and float with the flow. 
Nasturtium leaves: Reach for the light through the darkness. 
Magnolia buds: When you are anxious, imagine being embraced by softness. 
Tree dahlia pod: You already contain everything you need to grow. 
Borage: A prickly person may be softer than you imagine, once you get close enough to know them. 
White magnolia: May you bloom and grow forever.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.
It’s natural to want to make New Year’s resolutions. I do it every year. 
Why did I set myself up for failure, I ask, half to myself, half to God. 
I have many fears. 
As I walked past the magnolia pods at the Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens, I pondered imperfection. 
The Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens have reopened, albeit differently.
But I’m willing to wear a mask and socially distance from humans if I can peer closely into the central curls of a dahlia,
lift my head and watch the sun ripple across the leaves of an alder
or look downward onto a playful pattern of eucalyptus leaves and bark, dancing in stillness.
I can nimbly pick my way through a narrow trail, fiber optic flowers at my feet, lifting their joyful faces as if lit by Mystery.
I can round a corner and be surprised by two giant mushrooms that have popped up during my absence.
I can breathe in the scent of eucalyptus as I inevitably crush some of the fallen seedpods along a less-travelled path.
And I can be thankful for what is, and what is to come. Holy waiting. Faith that buds will bloom.
Dahlia gardens are like lazy summer afternoons combined with tropical-hued firework displays—they simultaneously relax and thrill the observer. Imagine magenta and orange Adirondack chairs placed in the emerald grass surrounding the beds. Sit down. Enjoy a glass of slightly tart lemonade. It even has a cherry and pineapple garnish speared by a miniature pink parasol.
Doesn’t it feel good to unwind? Take a deep breath through your nose. You won’t smell the dahlias because very few varieties are scented. No overpowering perfume in the air to interfere with tasting your beverage and dessert. Oh, did I forget to mention there is a plate of sugar-dusted lemon squares resting on a brightly colored tile table next to you? Each one is placed on a white paper doily.
Relax. The bees won’t bother you or your treats because they’re so satisfied sipping dahlia nectar.
Even dahlia debris is delightful. Don’t worry about the wheelbarrow of deadheaded dahlias robbing you of pleasure as your eyes flit about. Listen to the subtle music made by pollinators as they buzz from flower to flower.
Even a moment in the garden is like a prayer sweetly swaying up towards the heavens. And gratitude comes naturally. You are now ready to face the rest of your day.
As my husband and I enter the botanical gardens we are greeted by the lush purple-blues and hot pinks of hydrangea bushes. And what’s that between them…a rooster? Yes, the neighbor’s chickens are on the loose, once again, shredding and devouring nearby kale leaves.
There’s always a surprise here, whether it’s an unexpected carpet of flowers at my feet, or a dangling red lantern flower hanging from a tree above my head.
Anthers dance on a projectile of odd burgundy flowers, their yellow felt slippers curving and leaping down the stem.
Bees aren’t choosy about how large or small the bloom is as long as they can pack their pouches with pollen.
Dahlias curl into hypnotic spirals. A fly stops to rest on a petal. I flop onto the emerald grass—I’m dizzy with cacophonous colors and shifting shapes.
I eventually rise and discover a double calla lily—it normally has a single creamy petal. I call my husband over to take a peek. We clasp hands. One has become two and two are one. Vibrant life abounds.
Entering a garden full of dahlias, I felt the urge to waltz. The upturned, expectant faces, wildly outstretched arms and petals dancing in the wind brought me into a state of exuberance. Lively insects buzzed to the scalloped rhythm as I began to twirl around, remembering…
Have you ever danced with God? I have—in a vision, many years ago. I was at a Quaker Meeting for Worship, eyes closed, deep in silence. Without warning, I saw myself waltzing with Jesus in the center of the room, both of us barefoot and clad in long, flowing gauze tunics.
I was standing on his feet, as a child would, letting him bear all the weight of my frame, do all the work of lifting and swirling. I was as ecstatic as a whirling dervish, lost in the joy of movement, pattern, unity.
But then I saw the carpet beneath our feet was stained with blood. His feet still bore the gaping wounds of the stigmata and my standing on top of them was causing them to bleed more profusely.
I suddenly understood that I was no longer a spiritual child. It was time for me to partner with God as an adult. To carry my own weight. To learn the dance moves well enough to mirror Jesus, enabling us to glide gracefully in unison.
Back in the garden, I realized that I was dancing with the dahlias, partnering with the glory of creation. The bold flowers were dazzling. Even the dying dahlias bowed graciously, allowing the bright, beaming buds to take their place on the grassy dance floor. And the scattered, fallen petals were ready to nourish the next set of dancers. I, too, was ready to move on—to the next dance.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 