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Yellow Wildflowers
The yellow flowers glowed under the canopy of trees
and shrubbery. They stood at the tops of slender
stalks, which leaned out over the path and toward
the sun. Many flowers lean or turn toward sunlight;
there's even a scientific term describing the phenomenon:
heliotropism (from helios, the Greek word for sun,
and tropos, to turn). Heliotropes (naturally) and
sunflowers are notorious for this ability - in fact,
the Italian word for sunflower is girasole, "sun-turner."
But even the little woodland plants had the idea.
Something else caught my eye, too: The plants appeared
only at the edge of the woods. Beyond this edge,
this border, was a path, and beyond the path was
a large pond. Why were they not growing on the other
side of the path, even closer to the sun and not
challenged by the shade of the trees?
A possible answer is that the flowers needed to
live on the edge of two systems, shade and sun;
and while they might need the sun, they also needed
the protection of the shade for their roots. Firmly
rooted in the shade, they had to incline toward
the sun to complete their life cycle.
Life Cycles
Inclinations, or leanings, are part of our human
life cycle, too. We have such expressions as "he's
inclined to anger" or "she has leanings
toward studying medicine." It's a fairly common
turn of phrase.
Sometimes we need to resist our inclinations; sometimes
we are advised to give in to them. Resisting anger,
or at least chronic anger, is mostly a good thing.
Giving in to an inclination toward good (medical
school), is usually seen as good. The situation
is more complicated than that, however. Someone
who never gives in to anger may not act in the face
of atrocities or may eat himself up from the inside
with suppressed rage. Someone who is inclined toward
good but impossible acts may lead a life of frustration.
A person may be inclined toward medical school but
have poor grades and worse study habits.
Thinking of the little yellow wildflowers, maybe
we need to understand our inclinations in terms
of roots and borders. After all, an inclination
means that we're leaning away from a fixed point
and often crossing a border to do so.
Some Questions
What is the relationship between my inclinations
and my roots? If I am chronically inclined to anger,
does giving in to the inclination uproot me from
my cooler, shady moorings? Without some sort of
restraint, my anger can burn me to ashes. Can I
strengthen my character - my roots - so that my
inclinations make my life more interesting, but
not miserable? Can I make my anger more focused
and productive and less damaging? If I have an inclination
toward medicine but no solid intellectual foundation
(roots again), I will be lost and wither in medical
school. What other ways can I fulfill the inclination?
What roots can I discover so I could find fulfillment
in medical assisting, volunteering at a hospital
or clinic, and so on?
Where does the border figure into this? If I were
a sun-loving plant growing in the middle of a meadow,
I would have no inclinations. I would grow straight
toward the sun, or turn my head (like a sunflower)
to face the sun. A border implies difference, and
perhaps change. For the little wildflower on the
path, the border was a necessary ingredient to its
ecology. It couldn't survive only in the woods,
and it couldn't survive only in the sun. It needed
the difference, the contrast.
What are our borders? What borders are good to
cross, and what borders must remain in place for
our own well-being?
Are the roots sometimes a problem? Is an inclination
so strong, and so worthy, that it must uproot me
to be fulfilled? What if I have an inclination toward
exploring my spiritual side, but fear the risk of
uprooting my traditional upbringing? What if I have
an inclination to fight poverty in the inner city
or the Third World, but fear uprooting my entire
life and perhaps abandoning my parents and friends?
Each of this kind of challenge is unique; only the
person experiencing it can resolve it. But I think
if we look around, we'll see many people rooted
in fear yet leaning painfully toward the sun of
their liberation and fulfillment. Entire lives can
be spent this way, sitting on the border of a new
way to be.
Inclinations and Art
Finally, sometimes an inclination remains just
an inclination, not demanding or inviting change.
It's a way to lean into another environment without
becoming totally a part of it. Our little yellow
wildflower does this. A sailboat leaning into the
wind does this, riding the tension between air and
water. We may be inclined to infatuation with a
possible new career, or a possible new lover, and
we may have these sensations without abandoning
a good job or a good partner. The infatuations may
even make the roots stronger or revitalize the whole
organism.
We may have inclinations that are futile but carry
with them a sweet melancholy that crosses over into
art, as in this Pablo Neruda love poem (my translation):
Leaning into the evenings…
Leaning into the evenings, I cast my sad nets
at your oceanic eyes.
My loneliness, waving its arms about like a
castaway,
stretches up and burns there in the highest beacon
fire.
I send red signals over your absent eyes,
which surge like the sea at the shore of a lighthouse.
You only keep watch in the darkness, my distant
woman;
in your gaze the frightful coastline sometimes looms.
Leaning into the evenings, I fling my sad nets
at that sea that shakes your oceanic eyes.
Night birds peck at the first stars,
which sparkle like my soul when I love you.
Night gallops by on her gloomy mare,
scattering blue spikeflowers over the countryside.
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