On the Sphere

A handful of calla lilies, deep magenta, lie across the shoulder of a large frosted-glass sphere. Their long green stems run down the curve on one side; their flowers hang over the other, turned toward the ground.

The sphere is enormous beside them, white and perfectly round, and it offers nothing to hold on to — no rim, no mouth, nowhere to be placed. And yet the flowers rest there as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They have not been arranged so much as laid down, the way you finally put down something you have been carrying for a long time.

A calla is a flower of clean lines. It usually stands upright on a straight stem, its single curled spathe held up like a cup. Here it has let go of all that. It is tired, perhaps — and beautiful anyway.

We are told to keep standing, to keep our shape. But there is a kind of trust in lying down on something larger than ourselves and letting it bear the weight for a while.

Perhaps rest, too, is a way of being held.