The world blurred. Fuzzy pale-green clouds billowed around a tiny sharp object, close-up: a fierce-feeling hyper-tight bulb shape of darker green, poised on a branch. Unmoving, I felt the wave of its power wash out into the air, into me. Slow joy started responding –apprehensive and a little agog at the task looming in this rosebud’s future, disoriented in a dawning awareness that this bud was not going to last, and it carried no plans of its own for how it would transform. As I stared, with soft eyes, the little bulb felt more and more like a fist, generating a force-field, explosive in slow motion.
As the shock faded, mind-energy crackled around the edges of the green cloud, popping out remembered poems and songs and movie symbols invoking roses and rosebuds. The act of grasping at the moment, struggling with the hope of capturing roseness on the page, to share, thundered up museums of millennia of sacred art, movies of floating rose petals, infinite perfumes. I crashed with the overwhelm of so many billions who love these flowers so much.
Days later, briefly wistful I couldn’t find the same bud again – it had vanished in a sea of others that were larger and reshaped now, some of them with petals venturing out – I marveled that the original vision still lived, inside. That tiny perfect momentary shape. That power, so contained, now blossoming in a soft universe where its first moments disappeared.