The Sacred Lily

The last of the weary light descends into darkness, bringing with it the sounds of cascading rain racing down the verdant hillsides. The water meanders its way through the forests on a destined path to the lowest point, a running stream buried beneath the dark canopy. The wind rakes the junipers with the beads of life, the junipers in turn give their sediment as gratitude to the stream. Life gives life. For deep within the crystal waters of the stream, into the mud and clay filled bottom, where life and time are at a standstill, something stirs.

The saturated nights of spring pass to the scorching days of summer, where the water retreats back into the sanctuary of the soil, giving its energy to what lies within. In the mud of the now shallow stream, the lily has taken root. It bides its time without utter or sigh, and even though the life-giving force around it slowly subsides, it persists.

As the lily enters a state of deep meditation among the drying mud and clay, a chill enters the air. Winds from the north descend upon the verdant hillside, bringing with them the autumnal colors, and the clouds from the mountains. A rumble from above signifies the start of autumn, as once again the nectar of heaven makes its way back to the parched stream. The lily, however, pays no attention, as it knows that there remains more to this arduous journey.

The chilled days of autumn turn to the frozen nights of winter, as the trees return energy back to the roots, once again returning to the state of quietude. One could say that the hillside is in the grips of death, but to those that follow the Way, death is not a finality, it is a transition. The lily stretches its roots further into the mud and persists.

As everything passes, so does winter’s choke hold on the verdant hillside. The rays of the sun bathe the junipers in crimson light, its energy sparking the bloom of spring ephemerals. The lily yet waits beneath the clear shimmering surface, knowing that nature is a deadly prankster.

Night falls, and the frost of a fading winter moves in, taking in the heat and energy of all that it can. The ephemerals wither at its touch. The lily, in deep thought, persists.

Heat returns to the valley where the stream moves under tall junipers, providing sanctuary to all that dwell beneath their shade. As the clouds retreat, a single moonbeam breaks the canopy, shedding its ethereal light upon the branches of the junipers, and its blessings on the reflective surface of the tranquil waters. The lily stirs.

From beneath the mud and clay, something rises. As effortlessly as the sun eclipsing the horizon, it breaches the plane, shedding beads of water as its delicate nature unfolds atop the still surface. Illuminated by the divine essence of the moon, the white lily blooms. A lifetime of energy stored, now made tangible in one brief sigh.