The Hummingbird Tree

pivot points of joy and micro doses of acid gone wrong

This morning.

Dash of gold. Short sharp chirp.

I know what to look for.

A hummingbird zipping branch to branch sipping Guanacaste blossom and water folded in green fronds.

My bland heart beating becomes joy.

This quick sip of a moment.

A pivot point.

I notice myself sometimes wearing a hard expression and wonder if growing old is not about time but about a hardening, absenting from hope and settling into a determined mode of getting through, getting by.

I do not like the feeling of my face being set rigid like stone.

I think many of us know that feeling. Many of us know how to wear that expression.

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Micro Dose Mondays

A year ago I had this great idea that to get to know my wild jungle fringed tropical land better I should take micro doses of acid on Mondays. Mondays are my quiet day. No kids, no gardeners, no one at all but me at my five acre surrounded by wildness-for-miles place where I live.

I’ve had terrible experiences with hallucinogenics. Hence the micro dose. An 1/8th of a portion. Actually a 1/16th to start with. It all went fine. I liked it. I felt entirely normal but I enjoyed carving out time in my week to sit quietly. Monday meld with nature day. But then four weeks in to my experiment something went wrong. I took 1/4 of a gummy. My mind became fractured and my thinking staccato. I told myself I’d just taken a micro dose and would be fine soon enough. After 2 hours I realised I was in for the full ride. There was nothing micro about the experience. The only place I found tolerable was under the Guanacaste tree. I have a swing hanging from a high branch. I lay down, legs up the rope and stared at the branches hoping they would give me calm like they normally do. Often they are my daily reassurance, my soothing sight, my immediate ‘all is well in the world’ medicine. But not that day.

I knew I needed to pee and feed the dogs and drink water. Those were the three ‘must do’ activities I forced myself to undertake. The rest of the time I shook. I cried. I waited. I tried to deepen into the feel of the place which is ‘normally’ so easy for me. I held on. And then, after about six hours my good thinking came. I could form full thoughts. I could write again. I could connect again to nature.

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On an entirely different day.

I sat on my swing under the guanacaste. I looked into the branches. I sat for a while because I was tired and because I wanted to feel the comfort of nature.

I stared up and up and remembered one of my favourite childhood books, the faraway tree (a magical tree with all sorts of beings living in it and access to different lands at the top of it).

Because it was rainy season the foliage was thick and green. Guanacaste trees have intricate leaves and there are lots of them. Thousands of small fans arranged perfectly so that the light touches all parts.

How complex I thought. Far more complex than I could ever imagine.

And then a sense of the greatness and extraordinariness and the in-explicableness of my own life struck me - and - all of it - good and hard - always touched by the light.

And this saying by Sharon Blackie came to me:

“We need to stop trying to dream the world, and let the world dream us.”

Lucy

p.s. the video at the top is of a passionflower in bloom on a vine in my garden. They bloom for one day. Just one day.