Corpse Flower

The corpse flower blooms about once every 5-10 years, emitting an unpleasant aroma during its full bloom for a day or two, before wilting and returning to its initial phase, existing as a singular leaf. This must occur so the plant can gather an abundance of energy via photosynthesis to regenerate its magnificent flowers. It is simultaneously mysterious and transformational, a reflection of how life and death work together.

Grief clouds the air with a noxious perfume. It's the peak of pain, eclipsing any trace of what once used to be starry-eyed and full of life. While in it, grief feels drawn out into infinity. Time is not what it once was. Everything turns into an abstraction, fleeting and rare.

Despite its potency, the rot serves life as faithfully as it embraces death. Grieving is accepting the decay and alchemizing it into nourishment. I consider it an inspiration. Death inspires something inside of me, a lovely, fertile darkness. We must trust that it will yield a bounty brighter than what is fathomable.

Death is inherently feminine and infinite. It’s a dark womb, a gestation for new form. Creative forces exist in circles (cycles with no true end). Each decomposition is actually a production, the natural world shows us this cyclical truth. We can look at our beloved corpse flower among other species, women’s menstrual cycle, the seasons, and our energetic needs. Nothing is ever in eternal bloom.

Creating a Litany (Labeling)

It’s my time to curse at the sun for shining. I’ll make a list of complaints – a litany. It’s better to identify and release instead of sitting in stagnant emotions swimming inside my little heart. I want to think that when we recognize our hurt, anger, shame, and even regret, it makes it easier to move past. Awareness is a slow burning light, shining through the unkept dark. I’m getting to know what it is that’s inside me. Naming the aroma of grief, like identifying the layers of the corpse flower’s scent is unpleasant but necessary for pollination and for rebirth.

My Litany:

• God forbid, living an arbitrary life
• War, famine, genocide
• New York's humidity ruining my hair
• Temu
• The fact that I’ll never hear my dad’s wisdom, the kind your parents start to open up about once you’re an adult
• When people don’t practice active listening
• The inner turmoil I feel in my gut when I haven’t written in too long
• Anxious attachment symptoms

Our human body is but a beautiful costume

Impermanence must be honored. Our bodies are temporary, but energy is forever. The vessel that we live in is not actually us, even if we come to identify with our physicality. I must learn to identify with the intangibility of my being. The one thing guaranteed in our lives is our death. And decay is life’s hidden twin.

When I think of my father, I don’t tend to reminisce on the form he took, but rather the bodiless attributes that made up who he was. This may not always be the case. I like to contemplate the color of his eyes. Still, there is a vaster space to occupy in the metaphysical, the kindness and generosity that humans are capable of, and are worth remembering and holding onto.

Reclaiming pleasure

I am alive. I still deserve fruit.

Aliveness becomes audacious, however I know that he isn’t wishing for my pain. I listen to music we would enjoy together and still enjoy it. I still get coffee there and think of you when I walk down those steps to the sand. The sun will warm me. I refuse to let your passing tarnish what I rejoice in. I’ve judged my abundance for too long. I’ve found myself again by synthezing my radiance from what once was rotten. Grief is the pollination of the soul.