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Tag: flowers

I will not be beautiful for someone else

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I am tired. I am broken violets in a vase that hasn’t had water for days. I am cut at the base of a very long stem – growing bent under the weight of others’ sins carried on the wind. How do you grow up when you cannot see the sun? Cannot feel the heat on your leaves? No warmth in the day? No moon at night?

I die. My roots growing further into the earth trying to bury my alive. When I am hiding perhaps I’ll survive. Only dirt is seen by the naked eye, but I…

I grow silently beneath the soil. I wrap all my limbs around rocks that told me I couldn’t and hold them so tightly. They anchor me. I tell them my secrets hoping my stories will bounce back with an echo of truth I don’t already know. I am only a seed below.

Scattered. Like dust. Shattered. Like someone just put me here and expected me to be something beautiful. Something for show. A feature in a building they call home.

It’s a house made of aging bones and hollow noises and records that play on too-loud speakers because why fix a thing that isn’t completely broken? Yet. It’s only a little out of shape. The music is still in time. In time.

In time. My heart no longer beats in time to the right rhythm. Broken violets in a thirsty vase asking for questions to be asked. Why keep them if they’re dead? What if they rot?

I’m not saying they’re entirely ineffectual – I’m a conversation starter at least. What will they speak about with a flowerless mantlepiece? Will they even miss me?

Not planted or picked for display. Just somewhere. A seed. Growing my own way and looking for the light.

Life out of drains | Drained out of life

Drains are rather disgusting. I don’t think I need to go into detail about the contents that lurk in said places. They’re not really social gathering points, or… well, any gathering points, except for what needs to gather in them. Moving on:

This morning, I cycled to church. It’s a gorgeous, bright, fresh, Twitter-blue-sky kind of day; there’s a light breeze blowing and it’s not quite hot enough to wish you had eggs and bacon to fry on the bonnet of your car. I didn’t have to lug a guitar with me as I do some mornings so I was free to two-wheel to the service.

On a particular stretch of road, I was stunned by an image: small white and pink flowers growing out of a drain. Beauty out of filth. It was striking, as if the stalks growing toward the sky were making a statement like raised fists in a riot saying, “We will not be shut down, we will not be silenced.”

I did a bit of research and these flowers are of a particular species called “Saxifraga.” (Note: I’m not a plant-loving, tree-hugging hippie but today I felt it necessary to get back to the roots. Pun intended.) This Latin word saxifraga literally means stone-breaker, from Latin saxum (“rock” or “stone”) and frangere (“to break”).

I can across this quote today too:

broken heartWhere am I going with this? Life is draining sometimes. If you’re alive then you’ve experienced this truth. It’s draining for different people in different ways but all of us have had the life sucked out of us in some way. We become hard and bitter and lifeless in some ways. Yet here, in the chaos of nature, we see evidence of growth and life and beauty from what seems like the most unlikely place. Literally, life out of a draining thing… a drain. Flowers have broken through stone.

Allow the draining when it happens; harder than that then, allow life to grow from that place. Do not stay hard, do not stay bitter. Look for that which is beautiful in  place you’d anticipate dirt and stench. It is there: life.

Why pout pourri will never be cool

  • Dried out, dead flowers are never cool.
  • Having your house smell like a bathroom, is never cool.
  • Dull looking leave-things in small bowls on counters are never cool.
  • Let’s get this out the way: pout pourri stinks. It does not smell good – at all! Bad smells are never cool.
  • Why is it necessary for all beauty therapists to put the stuff all over the place. I go there to relax, not leave with sinus as an allergic reaction to dead pollen-infested flowers. Again, not cool.
  • Most importantly, when is it a celebration to throw dead flowers at a bride? What the heck! NEVER cool!

Needless to say pout pourri has never been cool and will never be cool.