The Garden of My Mind
The Garden of My Mind
written by Indiya Tyshai
What would the growth of a flower sound like? The breakthrough from the seed, the stretching of its petals? One simply cannot hear a flower bloom. They aren’t attuned yet to such a delicate frequency, to hear the aches and pains a peony endures to bear such beautiful petals. Ones that we adore for an aesthetic. No one hears the Love that Love Me Nots beg for as we pluck away their beauty to affirm our own worthiness. “She Loves me, She loves me not.” The silent cries from the flower’s stem, telling you that you are loved without the destruction of another. The bulbs of a Lily bloom overnight whilst the world rests. In silence she spreads her limbs and in the daytime she shines, ready to reign and illuminate her surroundings.
My garden is teaching me to not only appreciate the silent seasons, but the ones that require screaming and shouting as well. The sounds of my garden coming from me, my voice, the sounds of affirmations, and rain. The buzzing of honeybees and the frustration from reciting my poetry. I’m learning to hear the needs of my seeds, nourishing them with frequencies. By navigating the world that is beneath my metatarsals and phalanges, using the soil to nest my creativity, I begin weaving a basket to carry what’s to be harvested in my next season.
“I can do this!”
“ I have what I need to thrive this season and seasons to come.”
“I’m doing so well! Look at me, growing a new leaf!”
“Do I need more Sun? Maybe more water?”
“Am I doing okay, are there any pests sneaking into my space, disrupting my peace, hindering my growth?”
In the words of Dr.Chill, “If you talk to your plants, they will talk to you and they will nourish you. Nourish you to a greater creation”. Talking to my plants, my sproutling, my seeds of promise, provides me a clarity that the noisy world clouds from my judgment. In my garden, my seeds call out to me. “We are here! We are here!” like my tiny little world that floats on a dandelion. When I fail to believe that someone is listening, my flowers breathe life into me creating a frequency that I learn to understand the more I keep my feet close to their roots.
As the sycamore tree amidst the garden of my mind, I’m learning to hear my own voice, as my thoughts are either seeds that I, or someone else, have planted. The wisdom that travels from roots to leaves, aiding my routine watering of the right seeds. Songs of certainty affirming the premature leaves into young adulthood. Soft sighs of blooming flowers that return every year because they know and trust that the Sycamore, that is me, will be the divine protection of this garden for centuries to come. sacred. divine. The wise ones will know, the children will be called upon to sit at the tree roots, and they will be urged to pick the flowers that are home here. Hopefully, after all of the screaming, aching and affirming done to turn this eroded space into fertile potting soil, they water their own wishes and watch their dreams sprout, growing from one singular flower into a garden. One tree, into a forest. One singular sound, into a symphony.
The garden that is my mind, filled with silence and sentimental cries, the tears that water the seeds that I repotted. Listen to them grow, from the metaphysical to the physical.
“You are here!”
“From the inside out.”
Sincerely,
Tyshai