When the pretty flowers seduced man into assisting them with the propagation of their species, did they know that the cost would be their freedom? They flaunted bright colors and intoxicated us with fragrance, and for such witchcraft we have relegated them to exist in the confines of garden walls and raised beds for their whole lives.
Some say that women are closest to the plant kingdom. I can understand how it might be true - it's easy to see how we have learned from them, how we have shared their fate. I wonder if the plants mind it. (Do we?) Are they satisfied? (Are we?)
I, for one, have no problem giving of my fruits and beauty - it is the one thing I live for. I want nothing more than to bloom, ripen, and drop the ends of myself (the beginnings of a new thing) down into the dirt for the benefit of all who came before me, all who came with me, and all who have yet to come. But I must be wild. I must be free to grow, to sway, to reach for sunlight, to weather drought and storms. I must dance with nature, and gamble my very life on the Great Mother, who births and destroys. I must have the option to find new ways of being. I must be free to evolve.
Perhaps that is why I have become attracted to wanderers, vagabonds, and other artsy passers-by. Or perhaps it is because I have rooted myself in the dirt of the road less traveled, that these bold eccentrics tend to find me. They are my friends. They are my loves. They are my tribe. They don't always stay for long. Or perhaps I am the one to leave - my petals die off and I retreat into the Earth in preparation for a new season. Either way, the connections are always real; both parties are always nourished. The memories will last and the exchanges will flow forward into our new selves. We are both touched, and instantly changed by this natural, wild soul connection.
Still. I don't always want to be passed-by. Even I would appreciate some company, some lasting attention... some long term symbiotic exchange. A deep love agreement. Even some security... not from the elements, or from nature. That is my home. If someone is to love me, they must know that I cannot be uprooted and transplanted to any controlled environment. It is in no way safe for me to try to exist in a place other than my natural habitat - nor would it be safe for him to try to keep me there. I admire the urge toward protection that some men feel, but I will not be kept and pruned in anybody's garden. No.
If someone is to love me, they must see in me a sanctuary. Designate this dirt as holy land - know that its richness contains all of the vital, volatile experiences that have created me. All of my old selves and my new selves are here in this dirt, and I am drawing upon the lot of them to create the beautiful colors and sensual smells that draw you in. If someone is to love me, he must not let anyone desecrate this land, this life, this whole living system of which I am a part. He must keep back all those who would cut me or my sisters down.
If a man is to love me, he must promise to never let anyone tame me.
