Metaphors

The rain that fell upon the fields glowed in the sunlight so as to give the impression of falling snow. As it fell, it did not freeze the ground, but nourished it forthwith the plants to grow. 

Across the gaze of the sun the sky stretched open a portal to another realm, and these bands of many colors which marked where we might find riches made us all the richer with pure joy!

Snail Metaphor

It has been raining every day for several weeks now. Every morning the usual gathering of sidewalk slugs and snails make the descent to the bus stop a challenging "find-and-don't-step-on" game, especially the later you are to catch the bus and the faster you go. Unfortunately, not everyone is apt to play. I was out this evening after the rain stopped to catalog the new flowers that had popped up in the prairies since I last went out to look them up with Elise, and stumbled upon a snail by the house stairs, shell partially caved in by footfall and the inattention of one. I picked him up and managed to pull off most off the threatening shards. "Perhaps I can find you a new shell..." I said absentmindedly. When I first came to Switzerland, I had been so impressed by the size of the snails that I had started collecting the empty shells I found in a jar, but I had long since given that to Elise. He poked his head shyly out of the vulnerable wad in which he had tried to hide himself with half his home missing, and seemed to look at me with admiration and agreement. "Well! We shall try!" I started off down the sidewalk, looking all around for vacant snail shells. After a moment he began lengthening himself out, antennas at attention as if he was searching for a shell too, and was ready to jump out any moment should we find something more suitable for him. I picked up quite a few shells, but always apologized and set them back down quickly so the current resident could finish their meal of rotting leaves in peace. His antennas began to bend sadly down and out to each direction as if he too was loosing hope.

After several minutes, my perspective was changed as I came across another unfortunate snail. This one had even less to call home, and what was left was so destroyed that it now offered not protection but hazardous shards and pieces. We looked sadly at him for a moment, and observing the snail that was left in the pile of shell, I realized how very little I knew about snail anatomy. Perhaps they could not change shells at all, and all chance for life was lost to this little fellow with the carelessness of a larger being running to catch their bus or looking at their phone. But he was not ended the moment intricate spirals came in contact with the shoe or wheel, but is forced to live out his hours struggling and broken to be prayed upon by something else. I sat a moment with the two advancing around on my hand, and eventually decided there was only one thing I could do. I took them to a nearby tree where I found a seemingly happy band of snails already crawling, concealed in the branches away from the carnivorous bugs and dangers that lurked in the grass, and decided to leave them there. It took a moment to attach them to the branches as shells are heavy and gravity an influence on snail trajectory, but it was done. I looked at them for a moment and began to think of others: the animals we eat, the migrants we can't find homes for, the people we leave broken in the streets, every life we absentmindedly ruin in the rush and consumption we only seem to have attention for. As with all things, we can't save every snail we find on the sidewalk, but in respect for life we might watch out for them so as not to cause more misery than there already must be. We can be kind and sympathetic, listen to others, give them our time and compassion, but in the end it is something much deeper that must be fixed. Whether they are snails on the sidewalk of Prez-vers-Siviriez or people asking for money on the streets of Fribourg, I have become aware of how little I can really do once the damage is done. For now, all I have in my power to do is to watch where I walk, and maybe tell all of you so you can do so as well! :)

Rose Metaphor

The rose I claimed was considered golden, with promising buds peeping out from under protective leaves, and one majestic bloom folding even inward upon itself in intricate folds. But the blossom withered and the petals dropped one by one upon my windowsill. The sun looked on as the buds withered and dried before their time, no matter the moisture that came to them from the roots.
I was distraught, but the plant lived on, and there came three more buds shooting higher on their stems than ever the golden buds ventured, and when at last they opened their eyes, they were not gold, but white and pure as snow, folding ever open to the world and emitting a perfume sweet wherever their nodding heads gazed. I kept the rose for a time, trimmed and watered her well, and when a flower had no more to glow, I cut it to give to a friend so as to spread it's perfume another day.
I knew that if I wanted my rose to grow and live on, she would have to go. How yellow her leaves had turned in the shade of my home. I knew that I would have to plant her in the Earth where her roots would not tangle and wander aimlessly in a pot, but could breath and expand ever outward to seek that which would nurture her.

May she feel the rain on her leaves, and sunlight not dampened by the glass of a window pane.
May the wind take her perfume to mix with the scents of the world and paint with, and when the wind does take her petals may they fall and be gems upon the ground. For she is strong as she is small, with thorns to bite back the insects that crawl, and should ever that which defines her and would protect her be plucked, may her petals and all beautiful things be plucked as well.

I set her in a sack, with blooms peeping out to watch the world go by and catch the falling rain. They danced as I walked, and watched for the bus to come, gazing curiously about at the others around. I set them on my lap, like a baby's glowing face wrapped in white and smiling up at the other passengers through gentile curls. They jostled and turned, in uneasy sleep, but never a sound they made. When I entered the garden and set them down, I longed to be at home as they were, cousins to the daises and chamomile. My friends all asked "did you bring the rose today?" and I could say I had, and they would clap their hands and promise to go and visit her! I smile to think of my memory planted in a garden and cared for by my friends.

I watered my rose in tight as one would tuck a child to bed, and covered her roots in soft, brown soil. I left a kiss on her petals and felt the rain upon my face. Yes, rain oh sky, and bring sunlight too, and watch, blue or grey, as my rose will grow, even as I am far away, for I have planted her here, and put love in her roots, and her flowers will be a reminder to those I left behind how I love them.