THE story of the Weeping Iris

By Jane Lockhart

There once lived a flower in the midst of an English summer garden. It was tall and strong, green and majestic. At night, by the cool of the wind, the gatherer’s of the garden, set silently about, weaving their place together.

One day a sort of human girl sat gazing at the light, the purple bud, its newness ripe as Spring.

She ran her finger’s along its stem, whispering a greeting through touch. It was electrifying,  the secret of the moment a flower unfolds. Small creases of purple, crumpled by a long winter sleep, slowly aroused, to the time and place.

The human was filled with awe and curiosity, peering into the flower. How perfect it all is.

The beauty of its unfoldment was not lost to her. Though she lost herself in a year of change.

The year bought the glory, once again. All thing are passing, yet to return in new, she thought. Returning with a sharp pair of scissors, she bowed her head and asked, may I cut you? Yes, the flower sang.

On the fireplace, in glass and water, the iris burst out of every bud, each one after the other, as a lyrical song of harmony.

One morning, sometime later, the girl thought, I want another flower in my room! Dark clouds had gathered that morning, a wandering mind, full of it’s own desire, too busy wondering about tomorrow, accompanied her to the flower garden.

May I cut you? All honouring absent, just words forced.

She heard the No, as she cut the stem. Still she was deaf that day.

The stem was placed in the same glass, with the same water, and yet for those who do not believe, this creation is alive, every fibre of it,  a sacred song will think this made up. Like a fairy story. Yet it is not. It is true.

The Iris did not open like before. This time every bud died and sighed, fell inside itself, and instead of a flower ripened by the honor of Love, this time it turned to a running purple tear. Each and every bud, closed its eyes and wept. 

I know this story is true, because I am the girl whom the flower taught me, when we don’t pay attention, in honor of life, She will cry, and So will we.  

This beautiful prose is written by guest blogger Jane Lockhart. Below is Jane’s story.

I was born in a small village in England and after a teenage life living on the edge of deep inner discontent, I walked out of England, across the waters and started journeying slowly across Europe, Middle East, Asia, and Australia. Perhaps the English writer Laurie Lee had sewn some seeds into my curious mind!
Let’s just say, good fortune blessed me for I did not truly recognise the value and longing of this time or the nature of the Heart.
Bringing in two children to life grew my awareness in what it might mean to be a natural mother, so following this I trained as a midwife, working with indigenous and local women, especially the Maori. 
Maybe I was learning to find myself again, at least not feel a stranger in a society that saw all what appeared as natural to me, to be normal life in other cultures!
Just yesterday somebody asked me if I had ever truly conversed with any aspect of nature, Yes! I replied  and this story of the Iris is one I like to share of it.
Now I prepare to leave the sanctuary of the countryside for the City of London! Now my longing extends into River’s, most especially the Ganges, where I seek to walk, listen, gather, stand back, and create if She gives me Her blessing, a vessel of a story, as yet unknown, in honor of relationship.

I love cooking, bird wing sound, light, water, and closer the edging into a New Way of Living, one step at a time!