That Persephone travels between worlds has always fascinated me. I believe She reframed what was once done to Her into an acceptance of Her fate and Her calling, and into a graceful way of moving through and relating to transitions. She reframed uncertainty into mystery. When I can acknowledge and stop the self-torture of imagined fear, I have a chance of doing so also. I live in and with this story and try to follow Her lead.
With this understanding, I can finally stand up. I head for the rose garden, a place of exuberant beauty in early June. The waters of the fountain cascade down their stone steps, accompanied on both sides by pink roses in full bloom. I walk past the little pond surrounded by crimson, peach, yellow, deep red, and white roses, all exuding their intoxicating fragrances. I love the roses but do not linger; I am headed for the hillside where the oaks and redwoods live, a bit of the wild held captive but alive in the city. I sink down at the foot of a redwood, my back against its strong trunk. I respect the oaks, but I love the redwoods. Here it smells of redwood duff, spicy and clean, and the ground is littered with twigs and dried needles. It is not a soft place to sit, but no matter. Finally, the young woman across the pond stops yelling into her cellphone. There is a sweet breeze, and now the caws, cries and songs of various birds filter through. I close my eyes, just to listen more deeply.
When I open them again, I turn to face the tree and am stunned to see what I am sitting next to and had not noticed before. Someone has left an offering at the foot of this redwood tree – bougainvillea, lavender, thistle, poppy heads - a messy arrangement clearly here for some time. It reminds me of that first trip to Eleusis, where I also found an offering left by someone else. I straighten out the tangle of dried flowers, making some artful order out of the chaos, and then add something of my own. How wonderful to feel again the companionship of unknown, unseen lovers of what I also love and venerate. The tree does not speak to me, per se. But sitting in its calm and majestic presence is sufficient.
Uncertainty will always be with me as it is with everyone. There is an old saying that false security is the only kind there is. Freeing myself from the grip of fear, does not mean it will never visit me again. There is no “happily ever after” in my or any other story. Even in fairy tales, “happily ever after” really implies “happily until the next trouble arrives.” I may not be “cured” but I hope there has been some healing. There is a world of trouble outside this garden, full of violence, grief, disaster, and plenty of pain.
But what is happening in this moment is full of life and of mystery and deserves to be lived prayerfully. I look around. The trees, the roses, the hillside, the mother walking by with a baby in a front pack, the sky, the sun falling in full force over there and in dappled patches here under the trees, the crows winging overhead, the offering of flowers … this is life, all of a piece, sacred, here and now.
I stand up, look around, and confirm that this tree, the one I was drawn to sit beneath, is the only one with an offering at its foot.
When I reconsider to whom and to what I give my authority, here is my answer: I give it to the redwoods.
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