“Every happening, great and small, is a parable whereby God speaks to us. The art of life is to get the message.” –Malcolm Muggeridge
Flowers are some of my favorite things in the entire world. Slathered in vibrant colors and grafted with a soft-spoken splendor, they make any desk or dinner table, sidewalk or park exponentially livelier. Now whenever I buy a bouquet, I want it to last forever. That’s not to say that I want fake flowers. No, no, no. I want the real ones, just to do the fake thing, though I know that’s not possible. Having said that, following the initial desire for immortal flowers that don’t actually exist, I concede that in its most basic circle of life, flowers pop up and then wither up. They are indeed a fragile beauty. They are a fleeting beauty. And for those very reasons, they are a figurative beauty.
For in the still moments like right now when I am able to sit for long enough and listen well enough, I can scarcely hear the susurrations of the individual blooms that sit on my table as well as the ones outside waking up from the winter nightmare that overtook the city for the last couple of months. I can hear the flowers now, and they are insisting that they are more than just pretty things to look at. They are the fearful parallel of the human existence, teaching us a lesson in urgency if we will only listen.
Now I’m not talking about the urgency of aggressive living that makes us speed up our already million-mile-per-hour lives or stuff it with more and bigger enumerated lists, but rather the kind of urgency that arrests us in our tracks with its sweet aroma and unassuming beauty and whispers, “Stop and appreciate me. I won’t be here for long.” Granted, I can’t say for certain the full intents of God in this matter. Still in my curious imagination, I really think that one of the reasons He put flowers on this planet is to make us stop and to make us appreciate ________ (you fill in the blank). It’s as if flowers are His invitation, His call, His beckoning or dare if that’s more your language; flowers are His challenge to you and to me right now to stop and appreciate the little moments that make up the 8-hour shifts between vacations and the white spaces between bucket list items.
Stop.
Appreciate, Reader.
And understand that these thoughts are the aftermath of a letter I was writing to Keylan’s mom. There’s no need in the world, though, to remind a grieving parent that life is short. In this case, 24 years and 10 months kind of short. Thus, her letter eventually evolved into this piece that it is now, a piece for everyone else who is tempted to believe that life is an endless pursuit of happy hours and far away adventures. This piece is for me as well, specifically in the last season of monotony before I head out for summer; it is for the early alarm clocks and repetitive commutes, the opening tasks and endless errands I have to get done before I board that plane. Over and above it all, though, this piece is for those I sold Zippy’s chili tickets with and played shambattle on the scalding hot Noholoa Park asphalt with in my hanabata days, many of whom have been fossilized in my memory as their 10-11-12 year old selves. Still even though I have lost contact with many, I wish them the best and of course want them to live long, prosperous, and impacting lives. Nevertheless, when boy meets world and the coffin hits the ground, I must concede that in its most basic circle of life, people are born and people pass away—indeed a fragile existence just like a fleeting vapor.
So it is with these concluding thoughts, not so much within the spirit of teaching or admonishing or saying anything new or profound but rather in the spirit of walking along side with you, Reader, and calling your name, reaching for your hand, and wanting you to come back and stand with me so that we can, together, appreciate and smell the flowers that we so often pass by while power-walking to the train and to the next season of life.
Stop and stay a while, Friend.
It’s a beautiful day.
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Happy 25th Birthday, Keylan.
