By Lian Brook-Tyler
I’ve shared before the significance this painting, The Soul of The Rose, has for me – and I’m understanding that now more deeply than ever.
The first time I saw it, many years before I lived the kind of life I do now, I knew it was “home” somehow and fell utterly in love with it.
A print of it hangs upon our bedroom wall, a wedding present from my husband, and it has guided and inspired my life for over a decade since.
(As testament to that, when my daughter was younger she used to ask if it was a picture of me!)
But even when I last shared how it’s been my North Star, I didn’t quite realise then how it was showing up in my life, both divinely and materially (which of course, are really the same thing in disguise)…
🌹 My work is focused on guiding people to liberate themselves to live from their Soul.
🌹 Roses… blooms, oil, water… show up in almost all of my many rituals.
🌹 The rose is one of the symbols of the archetype I’ve been called to work with and have dedicated the past year (and a lifetime) to.
🌹 The way she buries her face in the rose evokes the union of the soft animal of her body* and nature, in other words, embodiment and rewilding, core elements of my work.
🌹 Recently as part of my shamanic work, I was asked to make contact with a spirit representative of the Earth, it was… you guessed it… the rose.
🌹 Her complete submission to the grief and praise** of the beauty of the moment (you can feel it, right?) is the same energetic submission to the mess and magic of the Soul, to True Will, that I teach.
🌹 Lastly, the rose is symbolic of the Divine Feminine, the embodiment of which is the devotion of my very Soul (and something I would have kicked, screamed or died laughing at not so many years ago.)
Soul of the Rose, indeed… I guess my Soul knew long before I did.
How has your Soul illuminated your path?
And are you heeding it… are you unfolding your own myth***?
Or are you waiting for someone or something to give you permission first, beloved?
Art: The Soul of The Rose by John William Waterhouse
*from the poem Wild Geese by Mary Oliver, one of my favourites
** from The Smell of Rain on Dust: Grief and Praise Book and a talk (search on YT) by Martín Prechtel
*** from the poem Unfold Your Own Myth by Rumi
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