At the market, there is always the stumble as I make my way through “the floral zone.”
It’s not as obviously mean as (insert snide Preference Loreal-I’m-worth-it tone), “But, are you worth it?”
More like (insert whiny-Fran Drescher-tone), “but the trimming, the droppings, the water, the INCONVENIENCE.”
You’d think I was contemplating getting into a wetsuit (which I have done, which was fun, though for this girl—frankly, inconvenient.)
But I have never bought a bouquet I have regretted. Rather, every bunch I’ve traded moola for has yielded far greater riches. Seriously meaningful and self-esteem enhancing shit. Gaia’s bling, thank you very much.
Still, I haven’t purchased many of these alchemical bundles in my lifetime. Sadly, I tend to tucker myself out at the deliberating phase and then come to the conclusion that it’s obviously better to “let it go.”
I am challenging that “let it go” thought.
Let it go is spot on most times, but I am beginning to suspect that in this case it might just be a “spiritual” excuse for plain ‘ole resistance. Why don’t I think twice about getting my regular cafe concoctions, but buying flowers for myself always becomes a weighty negotiation? Particularly when the modest act of doing so has historically given me so much peace and pleasure? Subtle to be sure, but for me it is a weedy (forgive me) pattern of….wait for it…..neglect.
So I am offering up a new prayer in my living room–it’s for any location or occasion–but especially when I find myself at the market with Eden before me:
“I am willing to practice the Daffodil stretch.”
And you can do it too. Just insert your own fave (stargazer, sunflower, tulip–hell, even the eucalyptus branches they sell at Trader Joe’s) and repeat, ideally, with feeling:
“I am willing to practice the (insert your favorite bloom here) stretch.”
Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?
And don’t forget to trim the stems and change the water.
Yep. Self-care’s a bitch.