Intentional decadence.

I woke up early this morning feeling exhausted, feverish, and generally horrible. I’ve made something of a rule for myself not to blog about the monthly ailments of being female but, my god, in the last couple years, every passing month seems to exaggerate my symptoms to an unreasonable degree. Even my bones hurt. And my brain…what brain? Surely, one must respect the power of hormones. If ever I felt connected to the gravitational rhythms of salt water, it is today. Earth, moon, oceanic rhythms, be damned. It’s funny (not really) how we romanticize such discomfort and pain.

But I digress. Even though I woke up feeling like I’ve been run over by a truck and kept awake for a week, I would prefer to write about the necessity for decadence.

Decadence. I like that word (the pleasurable variety, that is). I like it as much as voluptuous. Or passion. Or like any of the words that round themselves into seductive, shapely sounds. Alone at work, I can whisper these words to the plants. Their tender ears and roots soak in this affectionate vibration and if I pay close enough attention I’m able to envision their leaves growing generously plump. A bromeliad whispers back, “You can make any word sound seductive if you say it a certain way.” We wink at one another before I move on to the cactuses, the ivies, and the succulents. It should surprise no one that succulents are also well-versed in the syllables of sexy sounds.

Oh my god. Do you see? I no longer have control over my mind! In reality, I have not gotten up to talk to any of the plants. They are most likely thirsty and definitely lonely. My ability to space out and follow a train of thoughts into oblivion is spectacular. Turning those thoughts into a sensible string of words, however, is another thing entirely.

Today I feel weepy and wonderful all at the same time. I feel comfortably contained and yet I am reaching. Every thought, every word, sound, color, and texture feels like more than it is. Heavy, feathery. Palpable, ethereal. Possible, impossible. Yearning, full. Life perceived in opposites. Sometimes it’s best to ride these waves without expectation, to just take a step back from oneself and simply observe. Observations should be treated as nothing more than mild amusements.

And so I allow decadence into my life by drinking fine French coffee from a fragile cup patterned in a ribbon of Rococo gold. I set the cup in the morning sun to intensify its shine.

I peek inside the closed petals of a bright yellow tulip and find a white star at its center.

I accept my second art commission of the week and allow myself to dream big, beautiful, colorful art-filled dreams.

I eat a wonderfully warm and comforting lunch without feeling guilty, for which my body thanks me.

I wear my softest sweater and most comfortable jeans. I look out the window and let my thoughts drift into the gray sky of an endless winter.

Today my heart feels both heavy and hopeful. I found out two days ago that my aunt, whom I love dearly, has been diagnosed with a rare form Leukemia and a very serious bone marrow disease. I am scared for her and at the same time feeling every single sacred cell of life in me and around me.

Mostly, I feel like a cup that, too full, is about to spill over.

Days like today require intentional decadence. And these flowers? They are for you. Sometimes, I think, we all need a little extra decadence.

Namaste,
j.