what kind of pain is your pain?
my therapist asks me, what metaphor would you use? what kind of pain is your pain? I stare off into space for a minute and speak without thinking: a cactus. a thorned cactus, straight with rounded edges, and it might flower but only like, once every three years on the second full moon in a month.
he pauses. do you know what’s inside a cactus?
water.
we talk about cactuses for twenty minutes. how resilient they are, what kind of care they need, how they evolved to protect the oasis of water within.
we talk about emotions as plants often. it’s made me a better steward of my anxiety and depression, but it's also made me a better gardener. the marigolds that swept across my garden this summer are joy. the roses bursting forth along the backyard fence are love, obviously. the pothos I repotted, burrowing roots into fresh soil, that’s contentment. the snake plant is fear, transforming carbon dioxide into courage. the succulent that really should have died by now, for my efforts, but is still flourishing in a much too small pot - that’s anger, because I never give enough space for rage. the ivy, compassion, has given birth to offshoots now growing in jars of water around my office.
I don’t have a cactus, yet. still nervous to face this kind of pain, to care for it and maybe even to help it flower once every three years on the second full moon of the month. but there’s a spot on the windowsill for it, right next to joy and love and contentment and fear and rage and compassion, when I’m ready.
a few medicines for an almost-winter full moon, for anytime and always:
the marigold society
a feelings wheel, for when words are hard to find
what if we called it the flax age?
my favorite local plant witch shop, for care and community
what kind of pain is your pain? what plant is your joy? I’d love to hear.