The Azalea Sutra

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The sun came out for a little while on Thursday, just long enough for me to think about going for a walk. By the time I cross the street to walk by the privacy fence with the forever barking dog behind it, the sky was cloudy again and a brisk wind reminded me it is still only early Spring.

My mood is elevated by the hints and touches of Spring peeking out at me. A pink magnolia tree, with petals strewn around its base like the red carpet at a wedding, sparks little shoots of green from its branches. The moss clinging to magnificent oaks is freshly saturated by the recent fog and is thoroughly audacious in its greenery. My sycamore out front is still bare, but tall and winding skyward. The camellias are still going strong, if not a little heavy on the trees, like they grow weary of all the wet weather and wish for sunlight to dry their faces. And then there’s the damn azaleas, pink and white in turn.

For every rose bush, oak tree, hibiscus –  the sago palms and gardenia bushes, there seems to be a hundred azalea bushes. I’m walking along with this light springy feeling in my chest, something like one might feel at the sudden arrival of a pastry stuffed with a light cream, and I wonder why those god awful azaleas are making me feel so happy.

It’s the pink azaleas that draw my eye the most; they’re a shade between bubblegum pink and the fuchsia that was so popular in the eighties, just a tone darker than what Sheena Easton used as her choice color of blush. The blooms congregate on these massive bushes, their green showcases the passionate blooms like the black night illuminates the stars. The white azaleas remind me of swans swimming among gentle waves of leaves, little handkerchiefs adrift of the hands of nature.

Whilst I power walk in my neighborhood, I take a stroll down memory lane. I remember the Azalea Trail painted in a pink stripe down both sides of the street where I lived in Mobile. To be honest, I have no idea what the purpose of the Azalea Trail is, other than to designate the rout that the Azalea Trail Maids must follow in their parade through Mobile. I’m not sure what their purpose is, either, but I bet it’s some kind of southern society I want no part of, especially the part where you have to wear a dress that looks suspiciously like those damnable Azalea flowers.

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I remember finding leaves that got painted in the Pepto Bismol pink that missed the hue of anything natural by a few shades. Sheena Easton’s cheeks looked more natural in 1981. These leaves intrigued me, by either their misfortune or good luck, I’m not sure. I also scratched out rocks from the street’s pavement that were painted the same shade by a truck that drives for the city, painting streets, while all around my house the azaleas blazed.

Azaleas are synonymous with this time of year. The end of that interminable Mardi Gras and the start of Lent, for you heathens who don’t know what that is, don’t worry, neither do I. The distinct feeling of the the wind’s touch in the month of March whispers optimism, renewal and a touch of delirium from vitamin D deficiency. There is a promise at this time of year that is more Earthy than some far off mystical experience or promise of salvation or enlightenment. It’s the promise of life, to be exhilarated and frustrated with daily existence, to be disenchanted by feelings of monotony while holding in heart and mind the ability to enact the drama of your wildest dreams and most creative aspirations. We are reminded of the simplicity and audacity of life when flowers bloom, kittens open their eyes, the sky changes from sunny to overcast, a sudden thunderstorm appears overhead, sunlight breaks through the clouds. In an instant things can change, a small green sprout will surprise a branch with its happiness.

I love the Spring almost as much as I love the Fall, but I’ve hated azaleas for as long as I can remember. I round a corner in my neighborhood and must contend with seeing a massive wall of azaleas, white and pink and green. They are taller than I am, and I notice this sensation of happiness in my body, like bubbles or butterflies dancing. What the hell am I doing with this happiness while there are azalea bushes vexing me with their presence?

A green shoot of awareness juts from this barren branch of habituated loathing and I recall that for as long as I can remember, my mother has hated azaleas. Every single Spring she would disdain the blossoms unfurling their petals in abundance all over the damn place (admittedly, I use significantly more profanity than my mother ever has, expletives are my own). With that whole mysterious Azalea Trail business afoot in the Spring, there were plenty of azaleas to hate. She was reminded of her dislike around every corner, and she reiterated it often. Ironically, my mother loves every other flower. She can recognize different varieties of the rose, can root anything that has been alive within a decade; she adores the scent of magnolia, cuts plumes of ginger blossoms for me to put on my altar, violets stay alive in her possession. She once resurrected an aloe plant that died immediately from being given to me as a Christmas gift.

I am startled to discover I don’t hate azaleas at all. I think I might even be fond of them, if I’m to listen to the sensations I feel rather than the impressions I’ve adopted. When I see these bushes I think of being a kid in Alabama going to see my great-grandmother on Easter. I remember Spring breaks, cosmetology school, all the miles I ran in all the neighborhoods in which I lived. I think of this neighborhood where I live now and feel grateful.

This accidental little experiment made me wonder what in the hell other inherited opinions I carry I’m not yet aware of. As I make deeper inquiries of myself, my power walk slows to a pace more conducive to contemplation. After another block or so, I am heartened, because being able to discern the mental impressions and entrenched nature of thoughts is one of the purposes of yoga (and by yoga I mean meditation, not handstand in a bikini).

The mind can be such a tyrant. It knows who is right and what is wrong. Azaleas are bad, hibiscus are good! As someone who practices meditation with some level of regularity, sometimes the best I can hope for during a practice is for the grip of my mind’s opinions and judgement to loosen up, admit to being wrong, or sometimes harder still – admit to just not being right.

This moment feels like a little, but important, wedge between my incessantly thinking mind with all of its preferences and determinations and the mind that is a tool for care and creativity. I recently increased my daily meditation time, not by much and that whole “daily” part yet remains to be seen, but this insight came at such an opportune moment, bolstered by the bird song and other cliches of Spring. This stuff works, and I might add even more time to my sitting meditation practice to find out exactly how well. It might even become daily.

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