Dying, not resting

Nestled in the crown of the zinnia, wedged between the ray flowers and the receptacle holding the disc flowers, the bee lay on its side. When I touched it, its legs, carrying no pollen, moved feebly; the black furry body panted. Bees work hard, work themselves to death. I can imagine this one landing on the zinnia fresh from the hive, and just tipping over. A soft bier for the bee.

Looking around the garden, I see the roses bleaching, the final gladioli flowers at the very tip of the stems opening up, and the ones toward the base withering. Gardens have their arc- as do seasons, as do people--at the peak of which are displayed the qualities we admire or select for. When that moment passes, we may think: 'Good as gone.'

Wait, that's only partially true. Some things are gone because some things have changed. But new actualities mean new possibilities, new prospects. I was thinking of this eating lunch today with a workmate who wasn't in the mood for much talk. So silence was our mode of encounter, and it was rich.

Each Other I encounter is not just what, or who, I see at this moment, but a locus of myriad possibility traits, some of which may be actualized, with new ones arising as a result. Instead of the notion of an Other as a fixed thing of unchanging essence--the bee in its busyness as the archetype of bee-ness--we can entertain the awareness that change means there still remain familiar or may arise fresh potentialities to be exploited, energies to be expended and powers to be exercised.

What about any encounter would be fun without the conviction that each participant in itself, each in the encounter, and the encounter itself, had prospects, however 'past peak'?

Indeed, whole blocks of cosmos have yet to bloom; there's a bank of plants in the corner which looks like its building up to something (who knows what?); and the geraniums in the back yard, barren lumps for the last few weeks have decided to flower in red, pink and white.