Honey Bees and Thistles
I've always had a thing for thistles. Perhaps it's because they remind me of my Scottish background, of my grandmother, of my one small connection to Place; to belonging; to something and somewhere outside my little world of ‘just the two of us.’ How ironic that a plant with such strong and stubborn roots would be a symbol of heritage, when my own roots were such a mystery. There is nothing strong or firmly planted when your father is a ghost.
But underneath that, perhaps it's just the simple fact that I understand them. Or better yet, I feel they understand me. Thistles, in the most obvious way, are two things at the same time: A soft and vibrant flower on top, and a dreadful, prickly weed underneath. A fuzzy little head that asks to be touched; to be admired, being born from a body that says don't you dare, there's nothing of value here. Or deeper still: one hundred tiny outstretched arms reaching up towards the sky saying; let me be free from my past. Let me be released from the clutches of my wicked parts.
It's this duality that I am obsessed with. Because I know it's not just me; we all wrestle with the pleasant and the unpleasant within ourselves. We all stand in contradiction; we are lovely and horrible all at once. And we all walk a path that is beautiful and painful at the same time.
At this time of year every single thistle bush that grows in and around the horses’ field has half of its heads removed. As if being able to hear their whispered pleas for liberation, the horses see them as a delightful treat and will rummage ever so gently between the thorns to fetch their tasty snack. With a touch even softer than a kiss, they pluck the tiny bud from the barbed clench of it’s nasty roots.
The other day, after watching Jez and Skye snuffling through a bush, and with words about thistles fluttering through my mind, I stopped to take a closer look at the pops of purple outside the barn, ones I walk by every day and never see. It was the faint buzz of a honey bee that pulled me in closer.
The joy of mindful observation continued…. Delicate, softer than a kiss, touching without barely touching, the honey bee gathers what it needs. Like the horses, it isn’t bothered at all by the thorny mess underneath.
It isn’t bothered at all….
The horse and the honey bee understand that the wild does not come without weeds. That there is no such thing as neat and tidy in nature. That the sweetness of the wanted cannot be separated from the harshness of the unwanted. The softness and delicateness with which they interact with the thistle feels like forgiveness.
You are harsh and brutal; you sting and you cause pain. And it’s ok. We’re not bothered at all. You are delightful and heavenly too; you are sweet and you have gifts to share.
What if we could be just as gentle with ourselves? What if we could be just as accepting of the pain that is a part of us? A part of our journey. A part that we cannot be separated from.
What if we could handle our thorns with such tenderness?
What if we could stand so firmly in our contradiction?
What if could be less bothered by our mess?
What if we could be more like nature?
Perhaps we could be more…
human.
What would that look like for you? Please comment below in the app or hit reply and share with me!
I appreciate you so much,
Carolyn xo