Embracing my inner cherry blossom
Today, a friend and I went on a writing workshop & tree tour; a wonderful mix of nature connection, Manchester history & creative writing exercises. It was interesting to note how similar some of the writing prompts were to forest bathing invitations and journalling questions I've given to clients.
One such activity was to find a tree/plant that we identified with in some way, and write about it. Here's what I wrote:
Dare I describe myself as a cherry blossom? My inner critic is dead against it; "too obvious, where's your imagination? And do you really think you're as beautiful as that?" it chides. I wonder, do the other trees resent the cherry for it's crowd appeal? Or do they calmly accept its fleeting favour, observing the show like an indulgent auntie watching a charming seven year old's impromptu dance performance. It's not actually the beauty of the tree I'm identifying with, but the joy. There is something unashamedly whimsical and fun about the cherry blossom that speaks to the playful child in me. Conveniently, whimsy is my favourite antidote to shame - shame being the inner critic's weapon of choice - and I watch, smiling, as a family stand under the tree and take photos, the mother scooping handfuls of blossom off the floor and throwing them in the air, trying to capture the perfect action shot. As soon as they leave, a breeze picks up and swirls the petals artistically around the space they've just vacated as if to say, "you do it like this, see". The ephemeral nature of cherry blossom is its allure, it cannot be forced or too accurately predicted, you can only create the right conditions and wait for the pastel petals to bloom and then rain like confetti from the branches. A serotonin soaking. Nature's glitter cannon. Joy works in exactly the same way; a burst of sudden laughter comes unbidden or a gleeful smile splashes across the face in a moment of uncontrived happiness. I look down at the rainbow flag embedded in the pavement and remember where I'm stood: in Sackville gardens, the centre of Manchester's Gay village. The perfect place to take pride in being joyful! Shame is an oppressor and has no place here. Free yourself, honey, the cherry tree tells anyone who listens, dare to be fabulous whilst you have the chance. It's joy drifts outwards in generous arcs on the breeze, catching in people's hair and clothes. My friend laughs and says "I think some blossom just blew down my top!" I think of it tucked in against her heart, "how perfect" I reply, as we take photos under the frothy pink canopy, the inner critic forgotten in the rosy glow of a joyful moment.
