As I take my morning stroll around my living room, taking in the new day and looking out towards the rising sun, I catch a glimpse of a wilting flower, the sole survivor of a once beautiful flower that sits on a lone stand.
The sight captivates me.
I always thought it was weird when my mom would talk to her plants, encourage them, and even celebrate them when they grew as if they were human beings.
Now I understood it wasn’t a show because I was compelled to do the same.
I didn’t have to write up a speech or rehearse my lines. I didn’t even take a moment for the absurdity of my desires to register in my mind. It was as if the occasion demanded I break the silence with words of appreciation.
In the way a newborn baby necessitates googly eyes, weird noises, and even uglier faces of pure adoration, this single petal evoked the same flood of emotions. I couldn’t restrain myself.
I stood there looking in solemn appreciation, a tear trickling down my face and whispered,
“Good job. You’re doing a really good job. Thank you for your fight to live. It means a lot to me.”
And I sat there like a proud father. It was the petal’s undying resolve to stay alive. It was the enduring symbol of what this flower meant to me. It was its valiant strength, courage, and a will to reject its reality and to live that struck so deep a chord.
In that petal I saw my life, my struggle to stay the course, to not only live but to thrive.
I saw its audacious spirit to hang onto the stem even though all of the laws of nature and physics spoke against dreams and aspirations.
I saw, day-in and day-out long past its expected death, not just a petal but a story, a brilliant life making its stand.
It’s a silent petition disposing of banners and chants. It’s a painful one requiring mind, body, and soul.
Many times it’s a wrestle that goes unnoticed, labeled as just another part of life. And sometimes, as is the way of life, it might lead to death. The death of a relationship or a dream.
But I’ll tell you what, your fight, your determination, the tears you cry, and the sweat you wipe will be a display of such magnificence that all who cross your path will take a moment to linger in your beauty. They will feel the intensity of your pursuit, the blaze of your passion. In this cold and numbing world, you will be an ember of warmth, a flame that reminds us that fires are meant to sting.
The world will take notice of the strain in your voice, the anguish in your spirit, and fierceness in your steps. It may shy away from confessing its admiration for you, but it will with a hushed voice pay its dues with pounding hearts, trickling tears, and smiling faces.
Logic says this petal should have died long ago, to find its place in the annals of past beauty. Life says it should given up and rejoined its peers in the ashes of surrender.
And yet whether for the beauty of the rising sun that it can see from its vantage or the hope of making it to spring, it hangs by a thread of determination.
I know it’s hard, but will you still be there tomorrow morning?