“Powell Gardens, Kansas City’s botanical garden, is the only Kansas City-area venue to host Frida Kahlo’s Garden, an in-depth exhibition focusing on the influences and inspirations behind Frida Kahlo’s (1907–1954) body of work.” Here’s a sampling of that exhibit which is both biographical and educational.
I was strolling in the gardens of an insane asylum when I met a young man who was reading a philosophy book. His behavior and his evident good health made him stand out from the other inmates.
I sat down beside him and asked:
What are you doing here?
He looked at me, surprised. But seeing that I was not one of the doctors, he replied:
It’s very simple. My father, a brilliant lawyer, wanted me to be like him.
My uncle, who owns a large emporium, hoped I would follow his example.
My mother wanted me to be the image of her beloved father.
My sister always set her husband before me as an example of the successful man.
My brother tried to train me up to be a fine athlete like himself.
And the same thing happened at school, with the piano teacher and the English teacher — they were all convinced and determined that they were the best possible example to follow.
None of them looked at me as one should look at a man, but as if they were looking in a mirror.
So I decided to enter this asylum. At least here I can be myself.
– Khalil Gibran 
And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast
rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
The Silk Worm
I stood before a silk worm one day.
And that night my heart said to me,
“I can do things like that, I can spin skies,
I can be woven into love that can bring warmth to
people;
I can be soft against a crying face,
I can be wings that lift, and I can travel on my
thousand feet
throughout the earth, my sacs filled with the
sacred.”
And I replied to my heart,
“Dear, can you really do all those things?”
And it just nodded “Yes” in silence.
So we began and will never cease.
~Rumi
The dust of my body is the veil of the face of the beloved of my soul
happy is the moment when from off this face, I cast the veil
Even so, this cage is no good for a sweet singer such as me
I will go to the rose garden of paradise, for I am a bird of that field
It is not clear why I came where I went
my regret and pain is that I have been heedless of my own affair
Oh how I circumambulate in the space of the holy world
but in this flat, compounded abode, I am bound to my body
If the scent of musk issues from my heart’s blood
do not wonder, my friend, for I am the musk gland of Khotan
Do not look at the golden embroidery of my cloak like a candle
for there is burning hidden within this cloak
Come and take Hafez’s existence from him
so that by your being, none will hear from me that I am
Hafez
You look through my two eyes,
you are closer to me than myself
Your light shines brighter than the moon
Come into the garden so that the glory of the rose garden is humble
that it may be more beautiful and blooming
than a hundred gardens and rosebeds
so that the cedar will hide its height in shame
that the tongue of the lily will declare you more lily than itself
When you are kind, you are the candle of the soul, soft and pliable as wax
When you are aloof, you are more iron than iron
Do not be wild because you will meet her face to face
her charm will make you as cool and pliant as the earth
Throw away your armor and bare your chest at the moment of the battle
There is no better protection nor armor than her.
That’s why in every Sufi retreat, all the openings are sealed shut
so that from your light the house becomes more illuminated.
Rumi
Rumi was a masterful storyteller. Even by the lofty standard of Muslim mystics, he had a lovely way of talking about the most sublime of realities through everyday metaphors. Some of his favorite metaphors have to do with that most alchemical daily activity: cooking.
In many cultures, people obtain their protein not from meat, but from beans and legumes. So cooking hardened nuts till they are soft — for there is a grace in softness — was a matter of daily sustenance for many people worldwide.
Which brings us to the chickpea story, and Rumi’s retelling of the story.
A woman was standing over a fire, having poured a handful of dry, hardened chickpeas into water. As the water warmed up to the point of boiling, her mind began to wander. Then she heard a voice:
“I am burning!”
Startled out of her daydream, she looked to the right, to the left.
She didn’t see anyone, so she drifted back into the daydream.
Again, she heard:
“I am burning!”
This time she looked a bit more closely, and saw that the sound was coming from….inside the pot of boiling water. A chickpea within the boiling water, to be more precise. The little chickpea, twirling around the boiling water, began talking to the woman:
“I am burning….
Get me out of here!”
The woman glanced at the chickpea with compassion. Up it went, down it went in the boiling water. The fire was so hot it made water hot. What kind of fire is this, that makes water boil?
The chickpea pleaded with the woman again:
“Get me out of here!”
She reached over, and grabbed a ladle. She reached into the water.
And pushed the chickpea back into boiling water. The chickpea swam around the ladle, and rose to the surface again.
“Did you not hear me?
It’s boiling in here.
Get. Me. Out!”
The woman looked lovingly at the chickpea. She said: “My darling chickpea, I push you back in, because you’re not done cooking yet. You’re still hard. You need to be cooked before you’re worthy of being taken inside.”
As Rumi puts it:
If you should leave this place for one perfected
You’ll be a morsel and then resurrected.
All of us are like this, hardened hearts, in the process of becoming soft, getting cooked. The whole of life is like this: cooking in the fire of love, going from a state of hardness to softness, from rawness to being spiritually “cooked.” There is a transformation that each of us must undergo before we are “done.”
Rumi himself summarized his own life as this:
The whole of my life
is summed up in these three phrases:
I used to be raw
Then I was cooked
Now,
I am on fire.
Most of us would be content to simply go from being raw to cooked. For a select few, those who want not just salvation but sanctification, the goal is to actually be on fire. That way, anyone who comes into their orbit can move from being raw to being cooked.
The Lily
by Mary Oliver
Night after night
darkness
enters the face
of the lily
which, lightly,
closes its five walls
around itself,
and its purse
of honey,
and its fragrance,
and is content
to stand there
in the garden,
not quite sleeping,
and, maybe,
saying in lily language
some small words
we can’t hear
even when there is no wind
anywhere,
its lips
are so secret,
its tongue
is so hidden –
or, maybe,
it says nothing at all
but just stands there
with the patience
of vegetables
and saints
until the whole earth has turned around
and the silver moon
becomes the golden sun –
as the lily absolutely knew it would,
which is itself, isn’t it,
the perfect prayer?
A lover asked his beloved,
Do you love yourself more
than you love me?
The Beloved replied,
I have died to myself
and I live for you.
I’ve disappeared from myself
and my attributes.
I am present only for you.
I have forgotten all my learning,
but from knowing you
I have become a scholar.
I have lost all my strength,
but from your power
I am able.
If I love myself
I love you.
If I love you
I love myself.
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
Not asleep but like dreams
that night when golden light beams
spread glowing rays from her center part
and emanated from her Light filled heart
In a darkened archway cloaked she stood
head covered by her dark green hood
behind her a gloomy narrow hall
painted by dusty shadows on the wall.
Exotic cat like penetrating eyes
shown the beauty through her disguise
A stoic reverent pose
as the Light from within her rose
Known as the Light of heaven and earth
From within the heart comes Allah’s birth
as the Light is guided to whom He wills
and into the soul the knowing spills.
For those that wonder what becomes of this
for the righteous waves of eternal bliss
Paradise is not a solid place
but a Light filled spiritual space
Maverick Mist 