I used to feel sorry for flowers. I would also feel a physical pain when I’d see them plucked, strewn on the ground, or pressed between the pages of a book. I believed that their being conventionally pretty had to be a disadvantage because it meant that they would always have to prove they are more than just that. I thought that because their beauty is short-lived, it does not carry substance. I did not understand the demand which qualified such a supply nor I did find the price attached to be worthy of them. I would not carry flowers not even for visits to the hospital or the graveyard. Was I wrong to feel sorry for the flowers?
I wish I can go back in time and tell myself that there will be a day when I will look at beauty and see that it is not a endless wishing well carved deep by what is cast into it. That someday I’ll see it’s a tunnel – I don’t have to get distracted by its presence nor should I worry about its absence. The tunnel will end. There is light ahead even on days when I have to walk alone. It’s when the tunnel is darkest that the promise of what is beautiful and lasting makes the next step easier.
When I’m not looking, standing beside me are those who went out of the way to share their light and their beauty. For them it may have just a Friday where they helped me wear flowers weaved together to encircle my wrists. They helped me learn more about this beauty that is passing and temporary, the beauty that remains, and the light shining ahead.