I waltz into the “Begonia House” at the Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens. 
The structure is brimming with begonias that boggle my mind. 
Every petal a plié. 
Every ruffle a petticoat. 
The pendulous flowers beckon me to dance. 
No one is watching, so I take a tiny twirl. 
Languidly outstretch an arm. 
I close my eyes and sense Presence. 
The Creator is within the flowers. 
The Divine is all around me 
encouraging me to participate in the Dance of Life, 
encouraging me to invite others to this great celebration. 
Would you care to dance?
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.
Leaves are falling.
Singly.
Doubly.
In triplets.
Or myriads.
Each leaf dances as it falls. One curves and swirls.
Another sails and gently rocks, wafting down to rest upon the first surface it meets.
I watch a narrow leaf plummet like a diver. Instead of plunging stem first into the river below, it hits a wooden bridge and stops. Its respite is precarious—one gust of wind will send it off the edge.
A rust-colored leaf is bent in upon itself on one side causing it to twirl downwards like a screw. It lands on a wood railing whose knot looks like an eye. The leaf meets they eye’s inscrutable gaze. What transpires is a mystery.
The dancers congregate, communicate, disintegrate as they move to the next stage of their lives: duff, detritus, rich loam for the next generation.
I know why aquariums give rise to relaxation—and it’s not just the tiny bubbles. Watching the undulating water tends to hypnotize one into a blissful, stress-free state. As I watched the lime tentacles of an anemone sway back and forth, all worry ceased.
A sea urchin cast an otherworldly purple haze. I fell under its spell.
Two sea stars hugged the glass, their tiny suction cups moving to the beat of an unseen underwater band. I felt myself oscillating despite my feet being planted solidly on the floor.
A pink-tipped sea anemone decked out in a textured turtleneck waved its arms to and fro to the rhythm.
“Shall we dance?” a snail seemed to suggest.
“I don’t mind if I do,” I said, surprising myself. My feet came unglued and I did a little twirl. When I finished, I was face to face with another anemone. Its tentacles shimmied and shook, albeit in slow motion.
I looked over at a red sea urchin. Its entire body was a series of exclamation points. I was reminded of the idea symbol—a light bulb with exclamatory lines emanating from it. The urchin confirmed my thought: wonder erases worry.
Literally tons of “dead” wood are washed up on the dark beach. But even though these logs are no longer producing needles or leaves, they are definitely alive. I know, because the first log I see is a woman’s torso—a decorative chain just above her slender hips. A mermaid’s wavy hair lies next to her, as does an uneven tortoise shell made of bark.
Cave paintings of dancers wildly swaying to and fro offer a lively narrative to any passerby.
A log evocative of animal skin makes me question the existence of spotted zebras. I rein myself in, deciding it looks more like harbor seal fur.
Worms have created hieroglyphics on a log stripped of its bark. I know they are trying to communicate to me, but I can’t understand their scribbles no matter how hard I try. One log has its limbs chopped off. It holds its stubs out imploringly—its gaping mouth echoing a hollow howl. Another tree’s bark is peeled away to reveal a pattern akin to the nest of a paper wasp—fibrous and curving.
Lastly, I come across a log that appears to be rippled, like the nearby river. Water has carried these logs here to rest together and tell their stories to anyone willing to listen. I am.
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 