THE METAMORPHOSIS OF THE WATERLILY

It happens every other night:

At dusk, it swims up menacingly from the abysmal depths, it exposes its toxic flowers to the cool night breeze, and then devilishly offers its petals to be pasted, smoked, or eaten for the sedated pleasure of men.

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If one is to take the offer, he will immediately get caught in the web of its narcotic spell, as if captured by the song of a water nymph, he will be led by it, he will converge with it, he will first sip it slowly, then chug it down at once and peak in ecstasy, before drowning in its magic blanket, bathing in lazy lassitude, and falling asleep.

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The waterlily will not sleep. It will sing and cry and twist and turn and twitch and fidget in his bed, entering and reentering his dreams until he starts to confuse dream with reality and burn with what at first feels like a dire unsatiated thirst, but later is revealed to be gripping anxiety.

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All the while, somewhere the wicked Goddess Lilith dances in ecstasy. It is yet unclear from which she draws more pleasure: from the tormenting of men or the tormenting of waterlilies. 

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If one refuses to take the offer, he sees the lily for what it really is: a confused assortment of trickery and illusion. Its secrets, which otherwise lay hidden beneath the surface, come out at once. However, their effect is contradictory. At once, he feels deceived and pitying: he is enraged by the discovery of deceit but sympathetic to the woes of the poor waterlily.

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For the lily is only a terrified creature, a delicate soul, broken by a rugged world. It hides only out of fear and not out of spite. It sinks back down at dawn only because the world is too harsh for a gentle lily.

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So as the birds begin to chirp and blotches of light start to paint the sky, the lily dives back down into the Nile. One must then wait patiently to witness its beauty again.

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When morning comes, a different lily surfaces. It is not white like the night, but yellow like a warm day. It is gay and kind and bashful and modest. All remnants of malice, moroseness, and arrogance are gone. But is it real? Is it not just attempting to sedate you still, but now under a different illusion?

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Is it the same lily that hides under those petals, whether night or day?

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Regardless, it should be just as deserving of your love and compassion. It never chose to be a lily. You cannot blame it. It is its own doing, but not its fault.

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Modi’in, February 2020.