I have been obsessed with peonies this season.
Before that, it was roses.
And while I love all flowers, I am very particular about the ones I bring into my home. I only choose the finest.
To me, roses and peonies are the finest.
If Rose is the Queen of Flowers, then Peony is her Sacred Twin, sitting on a throne in a neighboring kingdom.
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Why am I so obsessed with these flowers?
For many reasons.
But mostly because of the connection I feel between the sensual nature of flowers and the sensual nature of women. I cannot behold one without sensing the other.
When I see the petals of a flower, I see the petals of a woman.
When I see the petals of a woman, I see the petals of a flower.
The recognition of this biological similarity was seeded in my consciousness many years ago.
In my twenties, I spent much of my time traveling in the East. During those years, I often visited Wat Ram Poeng, a centuries-old Buddhist monastery in northern Thailand.
For weeks at a time, I dropped into deep states of vipassana meditation. In those mystical states, I entered spaces that were so sacred, I came out forever changed. One of those spaces was the grotto of my heart.
In this vital center of my being, I discovered waterfalls, jungles and the ecstatic current of Eros. I became the One and the Many. I was saturated in yearning, and as my heart blossomed open, so did my sex.
In those realms of sacred union, my consciousness made love to itself.
I saw that the way a rose blossoms, petal upon petal opening to reveal its silky essence, is the same way a woman’s sex opens when tended to with love and care.
When a woman is loved, nurtured and understood, her feminine petals blossom. She grows slick with desire. Waves of pheromones undulate from her body and she shines in feminine radiance.
When a flower is watered, nurtured and fed by the solar masculine, it thrives. Its petals open to receive the light and it blesses its environment with fragrance and beauty.
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For years, I didn’t buy flowers. I thought it was a waste. They’ll just die, anyway, I thought. It almost seemed cruel to bring them into my home.
Perhaps due to the same shift in consciousness that took me from being a vegetarian to a full-fledged carnivore, I have also begun bringing flowers into my home.
It is decadent and unnecessary.
And it is a joy.
I revel in witnessing the life cycle of a flower as it tenuously blooms, unfolds in seemingly endless layers, and finally drops its petals. It is a spectacular and wondrous event that never grows old. I treasure each phase of a flower’s life cycle.
Every Sunday, I buy a bouquet of peonies at the Farmer’s Market. Sometimes they are rich crimson, other times delicately veined in pink. Today’s bouquet was entirely white. I can feel my heart trembling in anticipation of those pure creamy petals opening and revealing themselves to me.
Peonies are not cheap, but I pay for them happily. Cost is no object.
Just as I celebrate the erotic gifts of a highly trained courtesan, I celebrate the bounty and allure of a graceful peony. Such beauty is worth every penny.
I love to buy them when they are folded in upon themselves, nestled in tight buds. I trim their stems and leaves, and arrange them in vases. Once properly displayed, I place these beautiful bouquets throughout the house.
Within a day or two, the flowers begin to bloom. A tentative petal opens, then another. Some petals have smooth edges, others are frayed. Sometimes one flower will bloom a day or two ahead of another. They all have their own unique timelines and expressions.
As they grow, they unfold from within. The outer petals reach wide to accommodate the expansion of the inner petals. Just when you think the peonies cannot possibly get fuller, they do.
When they reach full expression, heavy and lush, their perfume graces the air. The fragrance is light and distinct, different from the full, heavy perfume of roses.
Both are beautiful.
They each speak to my body in their own way.
The peonies stand in full radiance for several days. I am reminded of a woman in her peak sensual expression, unapologetically taking up space in the world.
Audacious.
Head-turning.
Utterly uninhibited.
And then, the petals begin to fall. They drift down one by one, and sometimes in bunches. As they float down, they grace our dresser with their silken beauty. And they do feel like silk. I caress them between my fingertips in wonder. Their texture relaxes my entire body.
Watching the petals fall, I feel awe. This part of the life cycle is just as lovely as the blooming. It is perhaps more rich, more abundant. It is an absolute, flagrant expression of excess.
A weeping of riches.
Pure beauty.
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Once most of the petals have fallen, I begin to collect them. Sometimes they fill an entire mixing bowl.
I scoop them up and let them spill out between my fingers in a colorful cascade. They sound like a whisper or a purr. Communing with these petals is so self-indulgent, my body buzzes in pleasure.
Making love to flowers is the ultimate form of nature-worship.
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I have finally reached a stage in life where I allow myself to openly kiss roses. For years, I did so in secret. But no longer. Now I graze my lips over their fragrant petals as I close my eyes and breathe. The softness of the petals brushes the softness of my lips and feels like love in my body.
Sometimes the roses are graced with dewdrops. The dew wets my lips as I kiss the petals. Then I suck the tiny droplets into my mouth. It is the sweetest nectar in the world, next to the flavor of a woman.
Back to peonies.
Once I have collected their petals, I spread them out on baking sheets. I cook them at a very low temperature until their moisture has evaporated. Then I use the dried petals to create potpourri. Even after they have fallen, those gorgeous petals add beauty to my home.
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And thus, the life cycle of a flower. From nascence to bloom to radiance to death, they are a remarkable life form.
Do you allow yourself to bring such unbridled beauty into your home? To pay for the privilege of watching a bouquet of flowers move through its full life cycle?
I do.
Watching the life cycle of flowers teaches me about womanhood, sensuality, self-expression, and legacy.
It shows me that every step of the journey can be saturated in riches and mystery.
To Life!
To Death!
And to every phase of the organic cycle.
Love,
Sarah