multi petal

Basic Summary of the Chakras

Muladhara or root chakra is symbolized by a lotus with four petals and the color red. This center is located at the base of the spine. Muladhara is related to instinct, security, survival and also to basic human potentiality. Physically, Muladhara governs sexuality, mentally it governs stability, emotionally it governs sensuality, and spiritually it governs a sense of security. Muladhara has a relation to the sense of smell.

Svadhishthana or sacral chakra is symbolized by a white lotus within which is a crescent moon, with six vermilion, or orange petals. It’s located in the middle of the pelvis. The key issues involving Svadhishthana are relationships, violence, addictions, basic emotional needs, and pleasure. Physically, Svadhishthana governs reproduction, mentally it governs creativity, emotionally it governs joy, and spiritually it governs enthusiasm.

Manipura or solar plexus/navel chakra is symbolised by a downward pointing triangle with ten petals, along with the color yellow. Manipura is related to the metabolic and digestive systems.  Key issues governed by Manipura are issues of personal power, fear, anxiety, opinion-formation, introversion, and transition from simple or base emotions to complex. Physically, Manipura governs digestion, mentally it governs personal power, emotionally it governs expansiveness, and spiritually, all matters of growth.

Anahata or heart chakra is symbolised by a circular flower with twelve green petals called the heartmind. Within it is a hexagram, symbolizing a union of the male and female. Key issues involving Anahata involve complex emotions, compassion, tenderness, unconditional love, equilibrium, rejection and well-being. Physically Anahata governs circulation, emotionally it governs unconditional love for the self and others, mentally it governs passion, and spiritually it governs devotion.

Vishuddha, or Vishuddhi, the throat chakra is depicted as a silver crescent within a white circle, with 16 light or pale blue, or turquoise petals. This chakra is paralleled to the thyroid, a gland that is also in the throat and which produces thyroid hormone, responsible for growth and maturation. Physically, Vishuddha governs communication, emotionally it governs independence, mentally it governs fluent thought, and spiritually, it governs a sense of security.

Ajna or third-eye chakra is symbolised by a lotus with two petals, and corresponds to the colours violet, indigo or deep blue, though it is traditionally described as white. It’s linked to the pineal gland which may inform a model of its envisioning. The pineal gland is a light sensitive gland that produces the hormone melatonin which regulates sleep and waking up, and is also postulated to be the production site of the psychedelic dimethyltryptamine, the only known hallucinogen endogenous to the human body. Ajna’s key issues involve balancing the higher and lower selves and trusting inner guidance. Ajna’s inner aspect relates to the access of intuition. Mentally, Ajna deals with visual consciousness. Emotionally, Ajna deals with clarity on an intuitive level.

Sahasrara or crown chakra is generally considered to be the state of pure consciousness, within which there is neither object nor subject.  Symbolized by a lotus with one thousand multi-coloured petals, it is located either at the crown of the head, or above the crown of the head. Sahasrara is represented by the colour white and it involves such issues as inner wisdom and the death of the body. Its role may be envisioned somewhat similarly to that of the pituitary gland, which secretes hormones to communicate to the rest of the endocrine system and also connects to the central nervous system via the hypothalamus. 

flowers

He doesn’t bring his mom flowers.

She never liked them. She thought it was sad the way they wilted and died. Once, for Valentine’s Day, his dad brought home sunflowers. A whole bunch of them, still alive, in a blue plastic pot that smelled of damp soil. Stiles and his mom planted them out in the yard a few days later. At the funeral, when people bring flowers, it makes him sick because she didn’t like flowers, not cut flowers, and they will just wilt and wither and then they will rot, while underneath the ground his mom does the same thing. What sort of asshole brings flowers to a funeral?

“You can’t say that, Stiles,” Scott whispers worriedly. “It’s a bad word.”

Stiles is eight, and it turns out that nothing happens if you used a bad word. Nothing worse than has already happened.

In those first horrible weeks when the house stinks of the sickly-sweet perfume of dying flowers, there are no consequences for anything. Not for bad words, not for tantrums, not for pulling palings off the back fence and throwing clumps of mud at the house. Not for not brushing his teeth. Not for eating cereal all day. Not for running around for two days in nothing but his underwear. Not for refusing to go to school. Not for anything.

It confuses him.

He’s so unhappy, still crying himself to sleep every night, and he doesn’t understand how all this sudden freedom, everything he’s ever wanted, only makes him feel worse.

It goes on for too long, probably.

Then, one night, Stiles creeps out of bed and goes downstairs into the living room. His dad is sitting on the couch, still in his uniform, with a glass of something amber in his hand. Stiles sidles into the room. He sits down on the couch next to his dad and picks up the sharpies he’d left there before. He opens his coloring book, and then closes it again. Shoves it onto the floor, uncaps a sharpie, and begins to scribble on the table.

He looks at his dad, his stomach hurting.

For the first time in months he realizes what his thumping heart is saying: Notice me, notice me, notice me.

His dad squints at the mess he’s making. His hand is shaking when he set his glass down. “Stiles? What the hell are you doing?”

Stiles bursts into grateful tears.

***

When Stiles is ten, he runs away from school because they’re making pottery vases for Mother’s Day, and he doesn’t want to give his to Melissa. He likes Melissa a lot. She’s patient with him when his ADD makes him act out, and she puts Band-Aids on his knees when he skins them, and she shows him how to make real churros, but she’s not his mom. A part of Stiles is afraid that her kindness is some insidious thing, seeping into all the places inside him that his mom’s death left empty, and he doesn’t want that. He’d rather hurt forever than have a fake mom. Melissa’s not his mom. She’s not supposed to get his lopsided little vase.

It’s dumb and it’s stupid and it’s not fair that his teacher made him do it.

Stiles smashes his vase on the road and jumps on the shards until they crumble into dust.

***

When Stiles is eleven, the Hale house burns down. It’s the biggest news in Beacons Hills in forever. A whole bunch of people die. The next time Stiles is at the cemetery he sees the new marker. The Hales don’t have individual graves. Just one single marker for all of them. Stiles wonders if that’s because there weren’t enough bits of bodies left to bother burying them individually, or if because the surviving Hale siblings just couldn’t bear to listen to the sounds of dirt falling on a coffin lid nine different times.
Stiles sneaks back to the cemetery a few times, but nobody leaves flowers for the Hales either.

He finds out later that Laura and Derek Hale have left Beacon Hills.

***

He is angry when he is fourteen, when he is fifteen. He wears it just underneath his goofy smile and his awkwardness, just another layer under his baggy plaid shirts. He’s angry because he still doesn’t understand the world or the people in it. He doesn’t understand himself. He thinks he’s okay. He thinks he’s mostly happy, so where does the anger come from? Is it because he knows the world is so unfair? Or because he’s just a fifteen year old kid with hormones?

He spends hours and hours online one night.

Diagnoses himself as bipolar. Then with oppositional defiant disorder. Then with depression. Then anxiety. And then he remembers to take his Adderall and calm the fuck down.

He just…he just wishes everything didn’t always feel like such an uphill battle. That’s all.

***

Stiles opens his eyes, and is sun-dazzled.

He comes here, sometimes, and follows the familiar paths between the familiar names on the headstones, until he finds himself winding closer and closer to his mom.

All his anger, all his attitude, bleeds away into the grass of the cemetery, sucked down into the earth that steals all things.

There is a part of him that will always be eight years old and profoundly heartbroken.

He stretches, yawns, and is about to climb to his feet when he realizes he’s not alone. There’s a man standing in front of the Hales’ marker. Jeans and black leather jacket. Every line of him tense and bristling with some barely-suppressed emotion that Stiles thinks might be anger, might be utter desolation. They look the same sometimes. Feel the same too.

He watches the guy’s back until he feels guilty for staring.

He leaves, cutting through the historical part of the cemetery to avoid bothering the guy. He passes angels with broken wings, headstones so old the names have been blasted clean by the wind, and columns broken in half that signify lives cut short.

***

“Stiles.”

“Hey, sourwolf.” Stiles waves at him from his hospital bed and grins. “Have you come to sign my cast?”

Derek only glowers, and stalks away.

***

Even when Derek is being all growly and standoffish and a total alpha dick and is actively avoiding Stiles, Stiles still sees him. The cemetery becomes a weird no man’s land, where neither of them can claim to have more reason to be there. And because neither of them want to start a fight there, they don’t. Whatever shit they’re going through—Derek’s refusal to let Stiles get involved because he’s human and breakable, or Stiles’s insistence on mouthing off to anyone who threatens the pack—it’s forgotten at the cemetery.

“Did you know you’re not supposed to bring flowers in vessels that don’t have proper approval from the cemetery trust?” Stiles asks idly.

Derek grunts and sets his potted flowers down. They might be geraniums. Stiles really doesn’t know. But he can’t help the flicker of warmth that curls through him when he sees they aren’t cut flowers.

“I know because I once tried to bring a potted plant to my mom,” he continues. “And the groundskeeper threw it out.”

“If he throws it out, I’ll rip his throat out.”

“Good plan,” Stiles says. He nudges Derek gently with his shoulder. “Want to hear a better one?”

***

He’s not quite eighteen, but there are worse things he could do than fall into bed with Derek Hale, right? That’s what Stiles tells himself, anyway. And tells his dad as well, repeatedly. But he also kind of gets the idea that his dad doesn’t disapprove as much as he could, and that they’re both going only really arguing about it for appearance’s sake.

“Look, kid,” John says at last, and sighs. “This whole…this whole werewolf business.” He lowers his voice like the world is an obscenity. “I don’t like that you go out there and that you put yourself in danger—”

“Dad!”

“Let me finish, Stiles. I don’t like it, but I know I’m gonna have to accept it. And if you’re determined to keep doing it, which I know you are, because you’ve always been a stubborn little shit, then I’ll sleep just a little easier knowing you’ve got Derek watching your back.”

“Love you, Dad,” Stiles says, and flings his arms around his father.

“Love you too, kid.” John hugs him tightly. Just keep it in your pants until you’re eighteen, huh?”

Stiles does them both the favour of pretending not to hear the question.

***

Stiles takes Derek by the hand and leads him through the gravestones.

“Can I look yet?” Derek asks. He sounds pissed, but also it’s hilarious because he’s still got his eyes closed just because Stiles told him to do it. His grouchiness isn’t fooling Stiles at all.

“Soon!”

It’s still early in the morning. The groundskeeper won’t be here for hours yet. They have the place to themselves.

He guides Derek forward, their fingers twined together.

“Okay,” he says at last, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “Okay, you can look now.”

Derek blinks his eyes open.

The ground around the Hale memorial is awash in color. Hundreds of tiny flowers poke up from amongst the blades of grass. Poppies and daisies and geraniums and peonies. A multi-coloured carpet of petals that shiver gently in the breeze.

It’s going to drive the cemetery trust insane.

“All this,” Stiles grins, “for the cost of a few packets of seeds.”

Derek nods, and smiles, and swallows. His eyes shine a little with tears. “Thank you, Stiles. Thank you.”

Stiles leans in and kisses him softly. His throat aches as he fights the urge to cry. It hurts. It always will, probably, but that doesn’t mean life can’t be beautiful too.

Over at his mom’s grave, baby sunflowers lift their faces to the light.

Under the Haunted Sky

I lay down on the road
famine had not touched
and buried my face
in purple milk-vetch,

sniffing out memories
you were entranced by
until the multi-petal dragon
dragged you sobbing

between night’s teeth,
your blazing path cold
behind you. You would
stroke feathers and disperse

the last star from the sky
watching for the first,
the brightest,
never knowing

if what pointed you home
was Venus or the sun.

anonymous asked:

Derek/Stiles, Erica/Lydia, Stiles and Erica trying to one up each other in terms of cool presents and date ideas. Please and thank you!

“We should make a pact,” Erica says from where her head is sitting heavily on Stiles’s stomach.

“Unh-” he grunts, stretching out his fingers and wiggling them at the bag of food she’s commandeered but he can’t reach now that they’ve given up pretending to be normal humans who sit on the bed in his room or his chair or anything reasonable and instead two-person puppy-pile halfway on the beanbag chair that’s leaking peanuts in the corner.

Still nicer than her mom’s place and getting leered at by whatever creepy boyfriend is sitting around smoking and drinking PBR this week.

She sighs and grabs some curly fries and then plops her arm on his face and mushes them vaguely in the direction of his mouth. He slobbers on her as he tries to lick them into submission, but she doesn’t care. She’ll never admit it but the wolf in her secretly loves slobber. Scents or something. Makes them smell all ‘packy’ or whatever.

“Wrsh oo yu mn?” he asks as he bites off some wiggly fried potato.

“Well, you know, about how we’re both pathetic lovesick losers too chicken to do anything about it.”

“Huh,” he murmurs, seemingly thinking it over. “So like, what? I dare you to go ask out Lydia or something?”

“Yeah. And then you have to do the same or else I tear your throat out or something.”

“Oh my god, overdramatic much?”

She rolls her eyes. “Hello, welcome to Beacon Hills, population: Crazy.”

“Touché.”

Keep reading