They enjoy the soft, green moss blankets we tuck the orchids in with and hope that it is not orchid-watering day – as that is the day we place a peace-shaped ice cube on top of each mossy blanket, to slowly melt and sink down to the roots.
Esma, the hippie puppet with the green thumb, tells us this is just the absolutely most respectful and effective manner of orchid-watering. So far, the orchids seem very happy.
As I shuffle past the kitchen windows, Esma calls out to me, explaining “my work for the day is meditating, centering myself, finding inner peace, do you care to join me?” I can’t decide, and move on, leaving her atop the golden dotted-maroon blossoming orchid, way above the slowly dissipating peace-sign-shaped ice cubes below.
Forgoing the mossy softness, the little chorus of dancing lady puppets has retreated to their lair, the inside of my purse (their own self-imposed harem, a respite from the world), where they have dragged a set of particularly smooth and silky scarves in hues of amber and aqua which to recline, drink tea, and sleep. They are pretty sure they will not be disturbed as I am not working these days, so the purse remains quiet, hanging on the back of the bedroom door.
And it is then, that I notice Hacivad Bey, the learned elder, follower of Celaleddin Rumi, sitting atop my Great-grandfather’s wooden armchair, having a conversation with himself, or so it seems. ”Please join me, M’lady, I am just speaking with the spirit of Rumi himself – as he is in all of us who believe – I am speaking to him of your conundrum, about how to re-negociate your relationship with work so that you can feel healthier.”
Brought to tears by his kindness, all I can muster is, “thank you Hacivad Bey, you are so kind to help me think about this. I feel lost in the woods, and don’t know exactly what the right thing to do is.”
“You won’t know, not until you do. You need to rest and get well, and you need to look in your heart and consult those you love, and eventually, the way will become clear….” as Hacivad Bey’s voice trails off, he looks up to the heavens, as if receiving an interstitial telegram from far on some other side. Finally, he looks up, and tells me this:
Rumi says this – and this you must meditate on – “Everyone has been made for some particular work, and the desire for that work has been put in every heart.”
And so I have been, and I will be, and I have faith that the way will become clear, even if all I hear from the majority of the puppets is surrendering to Saturday snoring.