Flowers

A young girl walks through the meadow, picking flowers along her way. She dreams of a better world as she watches the butterflies fly around her. She wonders if this world will ever see her. The gentleness of her touch, the kindness of her soul. She has learned to be tough in this harsh world, but the longing for softness is palpable.

Her imagination takes her off into infinite space, though her tiny feet still walk through the dewy grass. She is a shape shifter, a darkness bearer, and a light seeker. An alien inside her mind, but fully human in her heart.

Her imagination pauses as she comes up on one yellow flower. She squats low to pull it, but she feels a hesitation. Will they like this flower? It is alive enough, pretty enough, big enough, fragrant enough... She sits for hours debating if this will be the best flower to pick for the world. 

She decides she will take a chance, while still unsure of herself. As she walks back to her home from the meadow, she spins the flower between her fingers. She is lost in her own thoughts. She sees every detail of this flower. Every line, marking, and shape, and in those moments of connection, she deams it worthy. It is so beautiful and perfect, how could it not be?

When she gets home, she drops the flower into a small vase of water. She tells the flower how radiant it is, and how she's so proud she picked this one. To an outsider, this is just an ordinary yellow flower, but she has fallen in love with the intricacies. It is anything but ordinary in her eyes. 

The time comes for her to deliver the flower. She scoops up the vase, making sure to carry it with both hands planted on each side of the glass. She walks slowly, minding her every step. Heel to toe, heel to toe, she walks, making sure no water spills and there is no chance for it to slip. 

She arrives with her flower safely as she stands in front of her audience. She can barely contain her excitement as her body begins to shake. Even with the rattling of her hands, she holds the vase steady as she slowly turns to face the people.

Now they see her, and they see her flower. Struggling to hold back tears of excitement, she breathes deeply into her chest and tells herself, "They're going to love it." Her imagination has taken her off into space again, as she dreams in real time.

But as she stands there, her ears notice a silence. She snaps out of her dream state and looks around at the people standing in front of her. No smiles on their faces, no laughter or applause. Just silent stares. Her body becomes still and the silence turns to ringing. 

She hears a voice from the back of the crowd whispering, "It's just a flower." She looks down at the yellow flower and wants to shield it, hide it, protect it, but she can't. It has already been seen. Confused, she lifts her head back up to see now everyone is walking away in disappointment.

She can hear each voice clearly, no muffling. "She thought a flower was going to impress us?" "What is so special about a flower?" "This was a waste of time." She wants to run and hide, but she is frozen, with her flower. She stands in disbelief. "How could they not see the beauty?" She thought in her mind. 

The day turns into night and she still remains, standing in the same spot, lost in the same thought. "Why was my flower not enough?" Was it not alive enough? Not pretty enough? Not big enough? Not fragrant enough? Maybe yellow wasn't the right color. Maybe blue would have made them happy.

She does this process over and over again. Picking new flowers every day. But each time she stepped in front of her audience, they became more and more disappointed. She couldn't understand why. These beautiful works of art only receive hatred and judgment. Why??

Finally, it reaches the end of the summer and she goes to pick the very last flower left alive in the meadow. It's droopy, missing some petals, and its leaves are torn and broken. "Maybe because it's dying they will appreciate it's life," she thought. It had been through so much. How could they not be grateful for it's life?

One final time, she stands again in front of her audience, but this time there is no excitement, no shaking, no wondering. There is only a small glimmer of hope. She holds her breath, turns around, and to her surprise, there is no one there. No audience. No one to see the beauty left in her dying flower.

She collapses on the ground, and the vase shatters beneath her. Lying in the broken glass, she feels moistness against her cheek, leaving no space between the water and her tears. The two are indistinguishable from each other. Much like her and the dying flower. After all these years of rejection, she feels she is on her last days. 

Unlike the flower, she is not dying. But this makes her sad. Is life worth living if no one sees the beauty in her flowers? Sure, she sees the beauty and potential, but is that enough? She came to this Earth to be among people, but the rejection is unbearable. 

Will her imagination dream up a world that appreciates what she has to offer? Will the world ever see the beauty in flowers? Not just hers, but the millions that grow around the globe. She knows every flower holds equal value, but she has put so much work into picking her flowers, they seem so special to her. Each person who picks flowers knows how special they are. Even though they do eventually shrivel up, there is always beauty to behold in their life. 

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