It’s kind of funny that I’m not a florist, or like someone who lives on a big farm and grows flowers, because honestly, I have a thing for them. Like, a real thing. I’m maybe a little obsessed. Or not. They feel like oxygen to me. Absolutely essential.
My parents had an acre of land, and it had flowers all over it, so my mom was always just going into the yard and coming back inside with a handful of colors. She had them all over the house. Queen Ann’s Lace in the bathroom, some peonies on the dining room table, a tiny bouquet of lily of the valley in the kitchen. My dad was a flower person, too. Every March he turned his antique/second hand store into an Easter emporium of lilies, and chrysanthemums, tulips, and hyacinths. Rows and rows of yellow and lavender, white and pink. The store, which normally smelled musty and old, smelled fresh and sweet.
I’ve always been a doodler. On the phone, I will make designs, or when I was a kid, in class, instead of taking notes, I would scribble. I almost always drew flowers. Big petals, intricate roses, daisies. For God sakes, look at the border of this blog. Even much of my favorite jewelry has a flower motif. Flowers are like a trustworthy best friend. I want to spend as much time with them as I can. They soothe me, improve me, increase my happy.
Aside from their obvious gorgeosity, I have begun wondering exactly why I like flowers so much. And I am thinking maybe it’s because they remind me that it’s essential to keep growing no matter how old you are, to keep evolving, and changing within yourself, but also, to just stand there and do your thing in the world, whatever that is. To stay rooted, own your beautiful, but also to always stand your ground. It’s a good lesson. To hold on to who you are. Who YOU are. To bloom.