Just last week, my friend, who studied plants when she was young, said that in order to get a flower to open, we must breathe into it, exhale, to release its narcotic gift to us, we must breathe into it, soften, let go, open ourselves, get up close.
A flower does not keep secrets. A flower shows everything, all its parts on display, however minuscule, however delicate. Such boldness, such drama, I admire and yet. No flower has ever pretended its affection for the sun. Every human has mimed their love to keep someone close. And yet.
Spring is here and the exhale is all birdsong and green. The inhale all wind and worry. I am never ready for the onslaught of air, of song, of color, of light. Secretly, I wish for rainy days so I can read and think and wait for something I know to show up, something I know I can know, when nothing is certain, holding close my love for words even as the smells intoxicate, the air a drug I love and hate.
We have to breathe out, let the breath get away. We have to let our breath touch another, waft its way into the world. Our breath is all we have really, nothing and everything. Our breath is all we have and we cannot hold it. But we can, we do, despite all our bigotry and longing, share our air, intentionally or unintentionally, such as it is, the breath is all we have to give.