Following Nature's Everlasting Rhythyms

When will I learn?

 

 

 

 

 

 

When will I learn

that I cannot force the flower to bloom before it is time,

that if I reach down to pull the petals on this blossom open

they will not come easily or willingly,

they will cling to life source in the middle?

If I pull even harder,

determined to see

a beautiful rose in bloom

before its time,

I will succeed at nothing.

I will tear the tender petals away

 

from that which  they cling

and, rigid with immaturity,

they will sit in my hand until

they brown and wither into nothing.

The once lovely and perfect

potential of a  rose will then

bow her innocent  head

to me in submission,

curl up and die.

 

 

When will I learn

that if I stand back and allow the rose to be,

not bothered by the clock's tapping fingers

or the hurried pace around me,

she will unfold  at the most precise and perfect moment,

a moment planned by a Divine Master of  absolute timing?

When she blossoms,

independent of  my controlling fingers

she will be ready,

her lovely petals  will stretch

like the graceful arms of a ballerina

as I watch nature's breath -taking performance in awe .

 

When will I learn

that I cannot rush the caterpillar's transformation?

If  I poke at the chrysalis

with the  tip of a stick

I will indeed pierce the soft silky flesh

of  it's protective womb.

I will see the beautiful colour of wing

within the hole I have created.

I can then tear away the remaining cocoon

to grab the transforming creature

that was once trapped  inside.

But the wings,

I long to be inspired by,

I will soon discover

will not open.

In their incomplete transformation,

they will be sticky and wet.

The butterfly will not fly.

It will never flutter away

in beautiful speckled patterns of colour.

It will instead  lay down in my hand and die.

 

When will I learn

that if I allow nature to be

in charge of the whens and hows

the way she is meant to do,

the butterfly will emerge

from his tight cage when it is ready?

At that perfect moment, it's wings will open

and it will fly away towards its purpose,

the magical transformation complete.

 

When will I learn that I do no good

when I try to help the baby chick

escape from the shell it is poking at?

If, when I  see the vibrations beneath

and the cracks appearing,

I take pity on the creature inside and break through

 to free it from the shell that traps it

I will do more harm than good.

What I will find instead of a

grateful healthy bird,

is a tiny bundle of gooey feathers

that struggles to breathe.

It will surely die  in my hand

as it gasps for air it cannot take in.

 

When will I learn

that if I sit back and watch instead,

excited by how much stronger each peck is getting,

amazed how much work the little bird is doing

to  get itself out of its entrapment

I will eventually be laughing at the antics

of a fuzzy little chirping fowl

that is strong enough to breathe on its own?

 

When will I learn

to be patient and to trust

that life has its own perfect timing,

its own agenda,

and its own perfect order.

The perfection of my life will unfold exactly

when it is meant to,

in the way that it is meant to.

I do not need to rush time,

to force change,

to help others who do not need my help.

I just have to be

as God molds me into something

magical and perfect.
 

When will I learn to be?

 

Dale-Lyn December 2014