You know that scene in Dune? The hand-in-the-box scene? The main character feels a call to something bigger, something truer. He must be vetted, he must suffer to prove the sturdiness of his soul, to solidify his calling. If he removes his hand from the box, he will die.
If he endures, he becomes.
“What’s in the box?” He asks.
“Pain.” She informs him.
There is a collective hand-in-the-box experience (experiment?) taking place right now. As the unwind from Covid, 2020, and maybe the last 10,000 years continues, we’re reckoning with identities, beliefs, relationships, and spaces that no longer feel supportive. Up ahead, we see a life that feels truer. The closer we get, the clearer the mirage becomes.
What must we endure to get there?
Who must we disappoint?
What must we unlearn?
How must our priorities change? How must we realign?
I know someone whose husband is dying from cancer. This human is the brightest star in the sky, truly. If anyone can manage a hand-in-the-box moment it’s her. And still…he’s dying. Which means significant parts of her are dying, too. This human loves plants and gardens, and she oozes confident, sensual beauty. So naturally I thought of her when I saw the jasmine plants at Trader Joe’s last week.
In the card, I wrote something about how, since we are to endure death, it ought to smell sexy.
If we have to be here now, then this pink, vining plant could serve as a gracious gift planted along the path on which we all walk each other home. Her husband is close to being home. She is there with him.
Growing up my grandma had a large fence with an even larger jasmine engulfing it. Her sprawling garden near the Pacific felt like a jungle with a canopy of sycamore and avocado trees. She was not a delight, but her mid-century home in Malibu was. She’d pick me up from elementary school on the days my parents couldn’t, which was a regular occurrence given the fact that they were often managing my dying younger sister.
I’d bury my face in the shiny, green tangles and inhale as deeply as my grieved lungs could. My entire world disappeared inside the blossoms, and for a couple of minutes I had everything a little girl needed. A daddy who didn’t leave. A mom who didn’t hit or yell or shame. A sister who didn’t cry out in agony when they missed the vein again. A body that fit all the societal norms. A heart that felt seen and known and loved.
The jasmine wafting through the salty, warm air made the pain of the trials much more manageable.
I believe and sense and even see a day ahead when we get to exhale and finally remove our appendage from this goodhardgood device. On a personal level, that day feels sooner rather than later. There are exciting opportunities ahead for me. There are lessons I’ve spent the last twelve months learning to integrate.
I’ve had many moments when yanking my hand out and away felt so tempting! I almost did it, I almost went back there!? In recovery circles, we’d call that a relapse. I almost abandoned myself! I almost forgot about where I was headed, and momentarily took my eyes off the horizon.
How human of me, to desire something familiar, something easier.
Do you know what the witch in Dune is testing? “We sift through people to find the humans.”
“A human can override any nerve in the body,” she explains.
A human can choose to shove their face in a jasmine vine. A human can text a friend and ask for help. A human can drive 3 hours just to watch a killer sunset. A human can feel any feeling with the help of a sturdy, free, and humble mind. A human can allow any moment, any lesson, and any failure to fuel growth, resilience, stamina, and heart, instead of feeding our shame.
I bought a jasmine for myself, too. Obviously. My I Don’t Wanna friend texted me to let me know that they were back in stock.
I’ll buy one for you if you want. I’ll write you a note that says something like:
Hi. I love you. I’ll be a human here with you. Jasmine will make it smell sexy.
-C
