The large salmon flowers of my Amaryllis have a short shelf life. Their beauty held in transient fragility.
It last flowered three years ago around Christmas and filled my life with its delicate perfection for two weeks then faded and withered. Carefully I repotted, watered, and kept it in the light until joy of joys last month I saw the green bulbous tips of not one, but three new buds appear, just like magic. Again the loveliness of the flowers was breathtaking.
Once more the flowers discoloured and shrunk, dictated by the plants inner rhythms. The lush green leaves produced nutrients and the food it needed. In time these too will wilt and fade. The bulb will sit in its ceramic pot for a few months as if dead. In time I anticipate the miracle of its flowering will be repeated.
Seasonal cycles, blooming and dying like the monthly cycles of the moon are so natural yet not what I expect for my creativity. I want my creativity to bloom and dazzle all year round. My weekly, monthly and yearly cycles demand to be honoured. The roots of my writing life ask for patience with the dull times when nothing much seems to happen and tell me the darkness is necessary for gestation. I have learned, my inner artist needs to be tenderly nurtured with friendship, encouragement, stimulation, and laughter. My creative dream will blossom in its own time.