The old world has died and yet you still attempt to navigate the wreckage. Somewhere, under a shrouded forest canopy, nature spirits whisper among themselves and wait for your arrival. Have you noticed how the sun even shines through clouds? You used to damn the sun but that was a different time. Now, your mirror vision finds intervention in the golden god’s baleful rays. What a difference a day, a week, a month, a year makes. You are rewriting your past, one memory at a time. Easy, easy, easy.
A field of tulips. Reading this symbol demands the fluidity of poetics. Hafiz likens the cupped shape of a tulip bud to a vessel or a chalice, “she bears a wine cup through the wilderness” that sustains and possibly intoxicates in the wilderness of the unknown. Wine, like flowers, are ceremonial. We place fresh flowers on your altars for the dead, and we bury our dead with bouquets. Wine is offered to our holy ghosts, or perhaps we raise a toast to our dearly departed.
There is abundance in your devotional rituals for the dead, but do not forget to listen. The chalice, a vessel from which the universe flows, is nothing if not receptive. As you walk this dreaming through a field of tulips, do you listen to your dead? What do they say?
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For today: the color alabaster, the speedy crystalline jitters of blue apatite, music in the key of A, the echo of thunderclap in your dreams, and the surgical precision of the mighty leopard orchid.