What You See is What You Get

It is Azalea season in Georgia. These colorful flowers nestled in bushes dot the landscape all over town. If you know anything about me, you know that I have a deep and passionate love for nature, and especially flowers. I am the girl who literally stops to smell the flowers. On a hike, obviously, but also mid-run, and when my family is riding down the highway going 65. 

Fact, on the I-85, I ask my husband to stop so I can pick wildflowers. 

Flora whispers to my soul, and my body cannot ignore its call. 

This truth came to light long ago. 

It was back when my mother and I flew from Albuquerque to Los Angeles. There I met the visionary, eccentric, and Southern dame who looked into my eyes. Then she looked at my hands.

 She flipped them over to gaze at my palms. 

After this painted the color of my skin onto little rectangular textured cards and then----- with a swoop of her flowing sleeve, anointed me a vital SPRING! 

Her name was Suzanne Caygill, master colorist, and that was in 1984. 

So, I come by this love of flowers, color, and whimsy—- honestly. 

It is the "essence of me," as per the name of Suzanne's book--- called, The Essence of You, the holy grail of my mother and her girlfriend's when I was growing up. 

You can imagine how difficult this next thing is going to be for me to admit.

I have contempt for azaleas. 

I know! It's crazy! 

At first, I thought that I just don't care for them. That my feelings for them were indifferent.

But then I realized, no, it's worse. They trigger me. 

Here is the thing: When we moved to Atlanta in 1997, pink, white, and orange Azaleas were the very first flower I met.  It was the early years of marriage and Shlichus, we were living in a tiny rental, and I was overwhelmed with babies. It was the days when the spring and summer melted into each other dragging on and on. Even with my summer trips out West to visit my family in California, those days, without family and many friends locally, were endless. The only flowers I remember are the scraggly anemic azalea bushes scattered in my yard. Dilapidated bushes with their too bright colored flowers amidst lackluster teeny-tiny leaves.  Bushes I didn't think to trim, shape, or water, bushes that didn't even belong to me. 

Recently, driving home through the bucolic Virginia Highlands (Google bucolic,  two times used since the 1800s are both in my writing), after an evening out with Eliyahu, I suddenly noticed azalea bushes everywhere! Like more Azaleas than I had ever seen before. It was like an explosion in my neighborhood. They weren't the scraggly kind of my younger days; these were fat, pompous bushes bursting with color. Purple! Pink! White! Periwinkle! Orange!

Perhaps I noticed them so suddenly and as never before because I have been consciously working on noticing my surroundings and being present in general? Instead of focusing on the view I readily enjoy, this one came rushing at me? 

Gone were my favorites; the dogwoods, the light cherry blossoms, the drooping cherry blossoms, the redbuds, the tulip magnolias, the hellebores, and the camellias. The peonies, gardenias, and hydrangeas we’re not out yet.  It was just me, Eliyahu, and rows and rows, bush after bush of azaleas. Ick. I felt sick. 

 I am ridiculous, I know. I was pretty dramatic in the car that evening as well. But I was on a roll. My tirade went something like this

--- Ugh! They look so fake. Cheap. Plastic-ey. They are so paper-thin and don’t even hold up in a vase of water. When have you ever seen a florist put Azaleas in a bouquet? Never!  Tell me why? Look at that bush over there. I am sure some family adores that bush, well, I don’t! But why do I hate them so? Oh my goodness, what is wrong with me? Now I’m feeling bad about all of my bad feelings toward these stupid flowers---

I looked at Eliyahu and continued my outburst ---

This is becoming existential for me. Do I need therapy? Therapy because I cannot make space for azaleas in my life? Why am I hating on them so much? 

At this point, Eliyahu was looking at me with his kind eyes that said, girl, you are funny. Well, he actually did say that to me. Girl, you are funny!

Funny? This is not funny, I need to get to the bottom of this! 

I got to the bottom of it (without therapy, this time). I thought long and hard, in Judaism this is the work of Hisbonenus, meditation. Here is what I came up with:

If azaleas were the only flower I ever saw or knew, I would love them deeply. They would enliven my soul. I would stop to admire them and caress their paper-thin petals. 

It is only because I live in beautiful Georgia;  where every type of tree, bush, and flower--- from cherry blossoms, crêpe myrtles, dogwoods, and Azaleas to tulips, roses, and hyacinth--- blossom in the spring and summer,  that I am "in the position" to consider the azalea, too basic. 

Deep down, I don’t hate them; I just take them for granted. 

Alas, I am ashamed! 

Humans are hardwired to take things for granted; in other words, we get distracted. This is on purpose. If we did not get distracted, I imagine, we would walk around in a perpetual state of shock and awe. We would not get anything done. Instead, we deal with the most pressing matters of our life, or what is most exciting. At the same time, ignoring the engine that keeps us going, namely, the basics. I have my ‘basics’ that I take for granted; you have yours. Yet, it is not all or nothing. 

I cannot help getting distracted or taking things for granted; it is my human nature. What is expected of me then?

Self-awareness. Jewish Meditation.  To be mindful and bring the things that have fallen into my subconscious mind back into the present. This awareness is my wholeness. 

I think about this:

How much of my ordinary is someone else's daily prayer?

If I appreciate that the azalea, although ordinary, is also extraordinary, I am whole.