Prayer in pretty purple

Sunday nights have been hard lately. I get a tight knot in my stomach and my heart starts to clamp up. I feel this jagged hardness in my shoulder muscles and a hard lump between my blades. Often, I wake up with a stomach cramp and deep furrows in my forehead. So, Monday mornings I wake up tense, sharp, anxious, and ready to battle the day. Today, as usual, I was running out the door without eating breakfast. The car keys jangled from my nervous hands and fell.A cup of tea that I cherish so dearly lay unsipped on the table. I would just get home at midnight and throw it away anyway.

With that funny urgent weariness that only office-goers know of Monday mornings, I pulled the door shut and stepped out into the world.

I stay alone. This means that I need a careful strategy (and also a back up to that careful strategy) to arrange for someone to collect the gas cylinder when it's delivered.  Relying on the watchmen to show some degree of responsibility is like trying to get a leaky faucet to stop dripping. It's possible, yes, but if I could get a plumber to come for a leaky faucet,  I could stay home for that darn cylinder.

Anyway, I rely on my neighbor. I went over to her place to hand over some money for the gas when I saw one of her gazillion plants in full bloom. It had thick magenta leaves that seemed to have veins in which the deepest violet coursed through. I had never seen  flowers in that bush, so I had pegged the melding of colours as it's chief attraction. But today, nestled in a cosy cup of leafy furls was a tiny bloom. It was as big as a fingernail and a bright,  bold purple. There was a cold breeze and this bud nodded along to the breeze.

I felt so happy. Others may have their prayers and rituals. But I got my fortification from a purple flower that danced away like a Sufi saint...in hope, in poetry, in love, and I dare say, for me.