Dust and smoke flowers
Also: "Heartspur" - Giddy-up there, feels...
Two thoughts inspired by the Cantonese language…
If you think that I might be stretching the points in either vignette, you’re probably right. But they intrigued me, so here they are:
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In Cantonese, the word for “fireworks” is 煙花.
Literal translation: “Smoke Flower.”
They’re pretty, are they not — those flowers made of smoke that people celebrate with? Temporary, transient beauty shot up into the sky over our heads, showering coloured sparks and yes, smoke…
It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? Smoke is in many situations is something to get rid of, a signal of danger (or a call for help), something that stings the eyes and stinks up your clothes.
Beauty sometimes comes from things you usually don’t see as beautiful or capable of creating beauty. Sometimes simply putting aside your assumptions or “prior knowledge” regarding a certain thing reveals so many layers of beauty and enjoyment within it that it dazzles you.
***
In a world where dust exists…
There’s a description among Cantonese speakers regarding this present world that roughly translates to “the reality where dust exists.”
That’s where time rules, where things get old and break down, where imperfection is inescapable. That’s where mortal beings live.
I’m reminded of this with each sweep of the duster I dance through houses with. Nothing in the world is as ubiquitous and as much of a symbol of waste and the passage of time than the presence of dust.
Yet that’s the plane in which we live. Try as we would to imagine a spotless world where dusting and cleaning aren’t only unnecessary — it’s even unheard of — we have to face this tangible, visible symbol of decay and mortality every single day.
Some believe that’s what we humans were created from — “For from dust you came, and to dust you shall return” — which is such a powerful concept (and mental image, if you’re of the visualization type) to mull over from time to time.
In a cosmic sense, we’re bags of dust with the capacity to think, feel, and create. (Including the creation of more bags of dust.)
This doesn’t mean our lives aren’t useful or valuable, or that we should just throw up our hands and stop dusting furniture since we’d have to do it all over again in a few days.
It’s just a reminder not to think too highly of ourselves. :)
***
Bonus thought: Flowers that turn away.
I was about to play for some of the folks at a local nursing home when I noticed the gorgeous blooms nodding in the afternoon breeze just outside the windows of the foyer where we were all gathered.
It was such a lovely picture of summer beauty — only that all the flowers were turned away from the windows towards the sun. All we could see from the indoors were the leaves and the backs/bottoms of the flowers; we had to imagine their glorious colors and intricacies for ourselves.
A tinge of pain shot across my heart when I noted that. And as little things like this tend to do, it made me reflect on the things in life where, yes, it’s meant for somebody, it’s beautiful, it’s placed in the right time and place — but somehow those who should be enjoying the presence and beauty of those things just couldn’t quite access them.
A similar theme is brought up in the book of Ecclesiastes, where those with wealth don’t get to enjoy it, but must watch others use or squander it; or how, when one dies having accomplished and accumulated all one could desire, all the treasures he leaves behind land in the hands of strangers who often do not appreciate or care for those things the way he used to.
The Preacher describes this as an “evil” that man is bound to suffer within this reality. I tend to agree with him.
But I don’t like stopping there (and neither does the Preacher).
Because of the fragility of beauty and the uncertainty of life, it becomes a personal duty (if you see the maintenance of your own sanity and gratitude as your responsibility, that is) to take note of as much beauty and truth in your surroundings and within the inner workings of your life and relationships, and revel in them. Protect them if need be. Create more if you dare.
But to overlook and ignore beauty — and yes, I know it’s subjective and rare and all those excuses one tries to give — is to suffocate your soul so slowly that you don’t realize you’re already dead until it’s too late.
***
A somewhat melancholy collection of thoughts this time around. Must be the dying leaves and withering plants getting to me…
Until next time!
Odelia
Quote for the week
Something that impacted me in some way the past week, and think is worth sharing.
“To summarize is not to know. " — From the essay of one of my students.
This week’s word: “Heartspur”
Since the start of 2024, I’ve begun a project of writing 7 poems each week, using for my prompt an entry from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig. I share the best from said project in this section.
heartspur
n. an unexpected surge of emotion in response to a seemingly innocuous trigger—the distinctive squeal of a rusty fence, a key change in an old pop song, the hint of a certain perfume—which feels all the more intense because you can’t quite pin it down.
From heart + spur, a spike on a heel that urges a horse to move forward.
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No poems this time around. But I do want to list one thing that never fails to be a “heartspur” for me: The sound of shoes scraping against concrete.
It’s something you hear a lot of in Generation Yamakasi. Rewatching that for the third time, I realized I was just as invested in the sounds the freerunners made as they moved through and around concrete jungles as I was in the visual movements on the screens. It’s the sound you hear when someone runs, jumps, or lands on concrete. The scratches against walls as a traceur tac-tac-tacs his way up or down a narrow alley. It sends excitement and nostalgia into my heart simultaneously, as if I’m trying to grasp after something about to happen while knowing it’s already been here and has since left.
***
Snapshots of life
Photos taken of things I’ve made or worked with, or places I’ve been the past week.
Came across this cool piece yesterday. Not entirely sure what it is, but is probably meant to hold and serve food of some sort. The petals are removable, and the thingy in the middle is a lid.
Give this a peek
The first song is the best version I’ve yet to come across.
Bullet notes from my desk
This is the 50th edition of Percolations. For those of you who’ve been here since the beginning — thank you! :)
Came across this just now, and found it useful + interesting:
Ahh, you've done it again! Beautiful intriguing thought. While this piece has a darker undertone, there is an appreciation of the severity of life.
Also, I've always loved how certain words are translated in different languages to give an eye-opening perspective on something we may be used to. I don't think I'll ever see fireworks the same way again! They are definitely smoke flowers 🌺 .