Rose, Minister to the Wounded Heart

Several weeks ago, when I got the call that my father passed away unexpectedly,

The first thing I did was take off my clothes and turn on the shower.

The crystalline filaments of liquid pour over my shoulders, supporting and anchoring me to the firmament,

As sobs undulate uncontrollably through my form.

Water flows in, water flows out.

Universal healing medium, imbued with consciousness, masterfully transmutes all impurities.

Afterwards, I pull out a small wooden chest and uncover a tiny gold-capped flask

Containing unadulterated Persian rose oil.

As I hold it under my nose, memories come flooding back.

Transported to medieval Shiraz, ancient fortressed city of roses and Sufi poets,

Land of my ancestors.

This small vial contains an aromatic treasure so precious; its use is reserved for the most sacred of occasions:

Deep ceremonial work, anointing my husband and myself before our Vedic marriage ritual, welcoming my baby into the world.

I touch a perfumed finger to my temples, third eye, the hollow of my throat, heart center.

I brush a scented palm across my swollen belly.

I lay down, breathe deeply.

Mind weaves mandalas of memories.

Time well spent with my dad, a kindred soul.

Rose deftly navigates the space that spans the chasm between grief and ecstasy

Of which the heart prism encompasses all.

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