To the degree in which we feel flowers, happiness and sadness can be conveyed simply through their presence without our having to be vulnerable but beyond those displays that eventually fade, is the embodiment of the hidden existence of our genuine stories.
Some of my earliest memories of how flowers captured moments of my childhood came from the fragrant roses that stood tall in the warmth of the sun as I passed by them, happily, every day on my way to play.
At other times, flowering plants have illustrated the colors that I have breathed into my heart from what was easy as well as so difficult even though no one else will ever truly know the details that they encompass from my journey.
There have been flowers that unfolded their petals as I stood by watching while storm clouds filled with my tears blurred my vision making them appear farther away than they really were.
There were flowers that gently vibrated to the sound of my loud laughter at celebrations as well as the ones whose attendance were the silent acknowledgement of a life that ended and the beginning of a grief that would go forward with me forever.
There are the ones gathered by little fingers from the weeds whose residence I disliked but were still set in a place of honor because the value wasn’t in what they looked like or where they came from but in who gave it with such joy to me.
There are the blossoms whose familiar marks of blue depict the regret that has burned on the inside and yet that hue is also the color that masterpieces emerge from and I am a work of art in progress.
There are also the flowers that were given as the symbols of apologies that eventually wilted because for things to take root and grow, the stems can’t be cut and wishes have to be followed by actions to come true.
There are blooms whose rugged foliage protects them and I know that somewhere amongst my rough vegetation and thorns are buds that are working their way through to the light as well.
Over time, some of my blossoming has become irrelevant and as that hard-earned decay of mine falls away, my strength has begun to flourish from the nutrients that my fear once used to hold me back.
In the name of flowers, there is a variety of greenery that exist in a multitude of biospheres and the truth that they speak in those gardens shows the distance between safe and unsafe as well as how dark and light ebb and flow on any given day in their own stories.
Our mental health contains the levels in which we experience the debris and the blossoms of our emotions and thoughts. Not having the words to manage those exhibits on the inside allows our fear to capture pieces and encapsulate them in the foliage of vulnerability and pain. Keep speaking until you find the individual or group who can help you take the abundance of your mind and heart and place those seeds gently into your living system of strength.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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