Almond Blossoms Look Like Snow but They Feel More Like Heaven.
Their faces started popping up on facebook sometime last
week.
I began to see photos of my friends in the orchards surrounding Bakersfield. These trees are in a lovely place in the bloom process which comes every Spring. It happens quickly. If you are a day late, the blossoms are all on the ground and then they very quickly return to the earth: fragrant dust whose appearance lives in the memory of those who take the time to notice.
This blossoming season makes me happy to live in Kern County.
I wanted to take new photos of flowering trees but more importantly, I wanted a new experience of sitting with solely and soulfully with myself among the almond trees.
It was just before sunset last Monday when the wind whispered in my ear, “Hey, Julie, everything is under control at home. Steal away, drive west….so I did. I left my home in Upper La Cresta in Bakersfield seeking what I heard were some incredible blossoms in orchards along Snow Road. I forget sometimes how far out that road goes but when I got to a place that slightly resembled a dead end I knew I was onto something sacred.
It was a less smooth, almost dirt road I drove onto when I noticed a few other cars parked alongside the trees.
Word was spreading. Other photographers were here. Some had special reflecting and light equipment. One was doing a shoot with a mother, father and toddler. I didn’t get too close to them, but how I wished I had done that with my children when they were little.
I thought of bringing my daughter out there, but here it is Friday and we haven’t had time. I know the magical moment has passed right as the wildflowers start covering our grassy hills for a different sort of enchantment.
The bloom and fall of almond blossoms has a short window of time to enter into its secret safe haven. The scent coming to me from my sun open roof was compelling me to stop driving and and just be.
“Stop and step inside!” The blossoms whispered.
My purple ballet flat wearing feet stepped onto a carpet of softness, a sea of almond flower blossom petals lining the muddy ground with what looked, at first glance, like snow. It was better than snow. It was warm and smells of rebirth and new beginnings.
It smells like waking up and being well after a long time not being well.
It smells like the wedding bouquet before it is taken on its journey down the aisle.
It smells like the first day of kindergarten, the last day of high school and the first day you moved into your dorm room freshman year.
I looked down the rows and rows of white and saw a tree, resting on her side.
This was a sight I had never seen: one fallen tree among many trees still standing.
I walked toward her soundlessly in the sacred hush of this
sanctuary. I put my books and my portable lap desk at her feet and
kneeled. Her branches reached to me, defiantly
blooming like all the other trees.
“See my beauty,” she said, her voice soft.
I breathed her floral scent deep into my belly. “I see your beauty, I smell your beauty. Your beauty is reaching into me.”
It felt like she, the tree, was asking me to carry her beauty with me.
I have to tell you, I love nature and I love experiences like this, but I normally do not feel as if I am having a conversation with a dying tree.
This is a moment that will live on in me and in my words.
I rested myself underneath her, scooting as much of me as possible underneath her tilted branches. The ground was wet and muddy underneath the blossom blanket, but I didn’t care about getting slightly cold and damp, this tree was allowing me to be her witness.
Nothing would stop me from living such a privilege she offered me.
I closed my eyes and prayed.
I felt the sun dappling my face in different areas as it moved toward the horizon. I waited and prayed wordlessly. It was at a point beyond language, beyond translation, beyond understanding.
As darkness began to fall I sat up and wrote what I could. Only a few sentences could speak through my pencil. I prayer-wrote thanksgiving to the absent orchard owner. I prayer-wrote profound gratitude for the tree herself for inviting me into such an intimate time in her life.
I stepped out of the orchard a different woman than the one
who stepped into the orchard less than
an hour earlier.
Transformation doesn’t have to be a lengthy process, it only has to be one met willingly with an open heart and a listening ear.
My final gratitude is for myself, for offering myself to both the will and the listening.
What calls to you today? How will you respond?
= = =
Julie Jordan Scott has been a Life & Creativity Coach, Writer, Facilitator and Teleclass Leader since 1999. She is also an award winning Actor, Director, Artist and Mother Extraordinaire. She was twice the StoryTelling Slam champion in Bakersfield.
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