No living human has pardon from vulnerability. There is no one who walks and breathes among us who is spared the clean edge of loss’ scalpel which is often our opening to life.
And yet, for chastisement of these regrets, The memory of one particular hour Doth here rise up against me. ~ William Wordsworth*
What is the relationship that you take with vulnerability? I tend to resist it and feel compressed and uncomfortable in my body. I feel the urge to retreat tugging at my sleeve. I often do what I can to cause the feeling to go away. Seldom do I “drop down in it”, notice the experience, and listen to it. Do you know vulnerability’s voice? Do you respond to its call?
I wonder if these flowers, torn from their stem, came to float in the river through acceptance, accident or as a gesture of letting go. Perhaps through the act of pushing away some undesired feeling the flowers were cast into the water? If so, did the person who tossed the blooms a form of closing down as an attempt to distance oneself from the pain embedded in the symbol of the flowers? Did the actions that brought the flowers to the water stem from an act of tribute, grief, or memorial? Or were they cast into the water as a demonstration of “letting go” by pushing away, attempting to cast some memories into exile?
I made no vows but vows were then made for me ~ William Wordsworth*
As I am following the drifting floret while thigh deep in the cold water of early spring, I keep wondering, what brought this flower here. Was it something that someone started with enjoyment and ended in pain? Was it celebratory all the way through? Or perhaps none of these ideas and just something that blew out of the window as a car crossed the bridge?
And on I walked in blessedness which even yet remains. ~ William Wordsworth*
Footnote: The darkness around the flower represents the mystery of its presence. I used the flashlight from my iPhone to stop the action of the flower as it bobbed in the river while still enabling me to have a low enough shutter speed to make the area around the flower dark.
*Extracts from the Prelude: [Morning after the Ball] By William Wordsworth (1770–1850)