The morning breeze gently rustles the reeds as my kayak makes its way along the shallow marsh edge of the lake. The blue hull of the boat brushing against the grasses makes a shhhh sound as if to say, “Quiet, this is a time for reflection.” I paddle the craft into a smooth, glassy path cut into the reeds and there on the left is a heron standing on a log patiently waiting for a fish or a frog. The sun is low and just touching the tips of the white water lilies that are starting to wake up. When I was a kid, my parents said not to pick the flowers because in Wisconsin these plants have a protected status that is of “special concern” for the Department of Natural Resources and it is illegal to pick them. The water lilies are why I set out so early; so I could study them up close.
Last year I took a photo of some yellow pond lilies at sunrise and I took the same photo of the same lilies at sunset. When I compared the photos I was surprised to find that they looked very different. In the photo taken at sunrise the yellow flowers were low or even submerged and the pads were sitting on the surface. In the photo taken at sunset the yellow flowers were rising tall on stems out of the water and the green pads were craning towards the sun like satellite dishes looking for the best signal.
And sure enough, this summer morning the yellow flowers are low again. The white flowers are a little different. Some are closed below the surface, some are just opening and others are fully open showing off the bright yellow center. The closer I get, the more activity I notice in this watery ecosystem. Below the surface there is a tangle of grasses and seaweed. The bulb or root sits shallow in the mud and is kind of strange looking - like a piece of exotic fruit. I found an uprooted bulb floating at the surface once. My fascination led me to get scientific and cut into it. The blub is like a dense sponge. The smell is pungent – part swamp smell, part dead animal. The root sprouts slimy brown stalks that make an underwater forest with a canopy of flat, smooth lily pads floating at the surface. Small fish lazily make “C” shapes as they navigate the forest. Above water there is a buzz of activity. Flies lavish in the yellow center of the water lily soaking up nectar. A bee touches down on another flower powdering itself with pollen. Ants even make their way across the pads far from their home on land. Spiders make webs between tall reeds. Dragonflies zip past. The chorus of frogs from the night before is long over and the pond-like part of the lake is waking up.
Earlier in the week I conducted a celebration of life ceremony for my cousin who died in October. A small group of family gathered in the very spot I had taken those photographs I mentioned above, on a mossy outcropping known as “the point”. The land was part of an island chain connected by the road and a small wooden bridge. On one side was the lake and on the other side was the quiet water, a shallow marsh, with water lilies blooming in early July. The ceremony was just how my cousin, of my same age, would have wanted it – stories around a fire pit, the soft moss charred from the night before; candles lit for ancestors, poetry, and ashes to return to the earth. It was a transcending moment of the living and the spirit world intermingling.
A week before, my Aunt called me to ask if I would put a service together. I said yes but what would I say? I had been so rooted in the shock and grief of my cousin’s death that I couldn’t string rational thoughts and memories together. First, my mind took me back to a poem called The Journey by David Whyte that I had heard on Earth Day. My cousin Jeff loved nature and animals and I tried to envision myself on the point at the lake where we would have the ceremony. Then I thought of the water lilies.
I remembered seeing somewhere that the lotus flower, a type of water lily, was depicted in ancient Egyptian art. Ancient Mayan art depicts nympha, or aquatic lotus, in its iconography and art. As I dove further into the mystery, I found that many Asian cultures also held the lotus sacred. India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Vietnam, Japan, Korea and China all use the aquatic plant as a symbol. Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, Jewish and Christian religions all reference the plant in stories. The plant is even mentioned in Homer’s Odyssey in a story called Lotus of the Lotophages. Much like the story, the lotus was used in traditional medicine as a natural aphrodisiac, sleep aid and anxiety reliever. The part I found most interesting was the symbolism.
The root of the plant is in the muddy floor of the swamp while the flower takes about three days to emerge above the surface and bloom. Its characteristics are a perfect analogy for the human condition. Our roots are in the mud and yet we can bloom into a beautiful flower. If you see the mud as a symbol of earth and the flower as something ethereal like God then it becomes a symbol of what is divine or immortal in humanity. More simply, when we are in the muck, we can awaken each day anew and praise something greater than yourself. In Buddhist symbolism it represents the purity of the heart and mind, as if floating above the murky waters of material attachment and physical desire. The more obvious connection is the flower to the sun; closing at night and sinking underwater and then rising at dawn and opening again. But again and again, I read about the connection of the mud and the flower – enlightenment, self-awareness, divine perfection.
My cousin struggled with his time on earth. Substance abuse and addiction led to a change in his personality and confidence. He told me he didn’t believe in an afterlife. AA did not appeal to him because of the Christian values at the heart of it. He was stuck in the mud. After he left us, grief bubbled to the surface for many of us. We could choose to be stuck in the mud or come to the surface to try and bloom again.
At his service on the point with the scorched earth and the water lilies blooming like Monet’s at Giverny, I started by telling the story of the lotus so that it might help people get out of the mud. Even though we are connected to the earth, with all its pain and suffering and with the fragility of emotion and strength, I wanted to remind people that life can be beautiful again.
That brings me back to my morning kayak ride. Bubbles float to the surface from somewhere below. A painted turtle pauses to watch me go by, then swims off. The sun is coming up and the pedals are opening up. Suddenly I remembered the story of the lotus I shared at the ceremony. We can choose to see the joy in life. We can let the sun into our hearts. We can see clearly that life is worth living. If we need to grieve, then listen to that need. It will feed our soul like a flowering that happens slowly. For me, the water lily is symbolic of the truth. Truth comes to us in little whispers just as the story of the sacred lotus came to me. And that is something worth protecting.
All photos © Eric Stein 2021