Zen as Fuck

I moved through today with only one intent – to be kind to myself.

It should come as no surprise that I wake to an alarm, even on the weekends. Packing as much as I can into every single day is the norm for me – it ensures that I get shit done, I keep advancing myself, and I use my time efficiently and wisely. This morning, my alarm sounded at 6 as it does every Saturday. And guess what I did? Nope, I didn’t hit snooze. I turned it off. Ha! I lounged in bed, somewhere in between awake and asleep for another ninety minutes. Listened to the birds outside my window. Watched the morning slowly change from dark to light and resolved to do the same.

As I’ve mentioned, I live in a 1890’s-something house that’s been converted into two flats. Mine, on the first floor, has the advantage of having access to both the front porch and back stoop. As I wafted between dream/sleep and the nagging need to get moving, I kept smelling the scent of roses. By and large, I fucking hate roses. They’re such a trite and expected flower. Fucked up with your girl? Send her roses. Special anniversary? Send roses. Someone died? Send roses. It’s as if the world forgets there are a million other blooms that are just as precious as the thorny rose!

So I kept smelling roses and couldn’t figure why. Efed gifted me lilies last week (but they’ve already died) and there’s no suitor in my world who might’ve left roses at my door (and if there were, said suitor better fucking know well enough NOT to gift me roses). Curiosity got the best of me, and after I’d performed my morning prayers, I went to find the source.

Overnight, or more likely, sometime yesterday, the rose bush that juts against my front porch blossomed. Little buds and fully opened flowers sprouted almost miraculously from the rose bush. I stood on the porch in my jammie jams, surveying the progression of growth and marveled at the kindness and beauty of a blossom.

Flowers don’t seek to be beautiful or pleasing. There is no drive for a bloom to have the perfect petals, the best scent, the straightest stem. They simply open as they should, and close when it’s time. The breath and the moment I had this morning on my porch was as close to completion as I’ve come in recent years. It was a gift from the Universe.

I ran inside for my shears, and returned to clip some of this gift to bring inside. Sure, I can’t fucking stand roses, but I know a truth when it’s presented to me. I’ve been looking at this arrangement all day. And every time I pass it, I remind myself to be kind, to mindfully take in the moment.

Wu-sah. Zen as fuck.