Tag Archives: Surprise

June 2012 Soul and Solace

Creativity/Spirituality, , , , , ,

Resurrection Plant

In the deserts of Texas grows a plant that spreads across moist ground to absorb as much water as possible and then curls into a tight-fisted ball in dry seasons to protect its life-giving moisture. It can remain so for years and, with the first fall of rain, spread out good as new. It’s called a Resurrection Plant. Cool, huh?

This isn’t about that.

For me, the prickly pear cactus is a resurrection plant. Also a resident of the Texas desert, the prickly pear’s paddle-shaped pad sports spines ranging in size from sewing needle to serious hypodermic. They look like death a good deal of the time: like they’re down to skin and skeleton. That’s most of the time. Because in the spring those skeletal paddles with the lethal-looking spines gather up all the creative juice left in them and push out a flower: a flower so bright yellow it’s ridiculous, with pedals so tissue thin it makes you want to cry.

Resurrection ought to surprise. It ought to burst on our vision, take our breath away, and make our world spin backwards. That’s what the prickly pear does when it flowers. That’s why it’s my resurrection plant.

What looks and feels like resurrection to you?

November 2009 Soul and Solace

Creativity/Spirituality, ,

Surprised by Thanks

“Give thanks.” The words meet us everywhere during this season: hanging from banners, printed into worship bulletins, drifting through radio speakers. And if, as is the case for many just now, you’re going through a rough patch, the exhortation can feel like another impossible expectation life has imposed on you. This season, perhaps we can relax into thanks, remaining open and letting it find us. For instance, while walking Town Lake one morning, a beautiful scent reached me: roses, apparently unaware that it was mid-November, bloomed in a riot of color, their fragrance more real and strong than any rose I’d experienced for some time. Dew sat up proudly in the ridges of the roses’ leaves, pure and powerful in the morning air. And thanks found me.

This holiday we can give ourselves the gift of permission: permission not to work ourselves up to a feeling of thanks, but, rather, letting go and allowing thanks to find us.