Petersko
Bluelighter
Wild Flower
A flower, in it’s delicate beauty holds the wonder of nature and the fragility of life in it’s tiny petals. But what is the beauty of the flower? Is it the lush beauty of the carefully cultivated flower garden? Such flowers are not real. Their lives are controlled and directed for the beauty of a single glance, and the entire worth of such a flower is measured in that glance - there’s nothing beneath, nothing to discover, and nothing to contemplate. The cultivated garden is nothing.
What then of the hothouse rose, who’s very existence is threatened by the slightest change? No, such is not the beauty of life. There is no future in such a flower - again, there is only the crushing realization that beyond the hothouse lies nothing but crumpled petals. Nothing beneath, nothing to discover, nothing to contemplate. The hothouse flower is nothing.
True beauty lies in the wild flower. Each is not perfect, each has not been bred to encompass a tired ideal of beauty that is shared only by the shallow. But the true beauty of the wild flower is in what makes it special.
The wild flower is a collection of individual pieces that form a whole so complete, so fulfilling, that once the realization is apparent, no comparisons are needed. Take the stem of the flower. Curved by nature to a familiar shape, the stem of the wild flower, when examined carefully, shows life. Marred here and there, the delicate surface of the plant belies the inner strength that dwells underneath. Perfection is not here, nor would it be welcome. The pressures of life bend and shape the stem to it’s will, but it prevails, raising the plant above the common ground, holding it’s head high, proclaiming it’s strength - and that strength is prodigious. Without this incredible base of hidden strength, the flower would collapse.
The leaves, so easily overlooked, yet so vital that without them the plant would die - these leaves are the filters through which the world is perceived and through which strength is drawn. A plant must have a healthy outlook through these leaves to flourish. Perception is everything here. And once again, life has shaped the leaves. Through good and bad seasons, the leaves are constantly changed. They must retain some vital characteristics to be viable, but all else is malleable. Perfection is once again unavailable and unwanted.
The petals of the wild flower are what is most readily apparent. Unlike the sterile beauty of the carefully cultivated flower, each petal of a wild flower is unique. The trauma of frost may alter a single petals color, a caterpillar may take it’s morning meal from it’s tender shape, a crease may appear during a high wind - each petal will tell you a story, and each mark is a tale to be told. These marks are not imperfections - they are life in action, changing what it touches, a process neverending. To critique a flowers flawlessness is to blind oneself to individuality, and to the beauty of simply being different.
Gently peel back the layers of the wild flower, and each new layer will tell whole life stories to the careful gardener. The levels are many. Any who take the time will find each level to be vast in and of itself, containing depth and breadth to last for a long time. Those that do not take the time have lost. I pity them.
The wild flower is beauty, inner and outer. It is a shame that the flowers people want are lacking the depth to sustain their interest. I’ll take the wild flower every time.
A flower, in it’s delicate beauty holds the wonder of nature and the fragility of life in it’s tiny petals. But what is the beauty of the flower? Is it the lush beauty of the carefully cultivated flower garden? Such flowers are not real. Their lives are controlled and directed for the beauty of a single glance, and the entire worth of such a flower is measured in that glance - there’s nothing beneath, nothing to discover, and nothing to contemplate. The cultivated garden is nothing.
What then of the hothouse rose, who’s very existence is threatened by the slightest change? No, such is not the beauty of life. There is no future in such a flower - again, there is only the crushing realization that beyond the hothouse lies nothing but crumpled petals. Nothing beneath, nothing to discover, nothing to contemplate. The hothouse flower is nothing.
True beauty lies in the wild flower. Each is not perfect, each has not been bred to encompass a tired ideal of beauty that is shared only by the shallow. But the true beauty of the wild flower is in what makes it special.
The wild flower is a collection of individual pieces that form a whole so complete, so fulfilling, that once the realization is apparent, no comparisons are needed. Take the stem of the flower. Curved by nature to a familiar shape, the stem of the wild flower, when examined carefully, shows life. Marred here and there, the delicate surface of the plant belies the inner strength that dwells underneath. Perfection is not here, nor would it be welcome. The pressures of life bend and shape the stem to it’s will, but it prevails, raising the plant above the common ground, holding it’s head high, proclaiming it’s strength - and that strength is prodigious. Without this incredible base of hidden strength, the flower would collapse.
The leaves, so easily overlooked, yet so vital that without them the plant would die - these leaves are the filters through which the world is perceived and through which strength is drawn. A plant must have a healthy outlook through these leaves to flourish. Perception is everything here. And once again, life has shaped the leaves. Through good and bad seasons, the leaves are constantly changed. They must retain some vital characteristics to be viable, but all else is malleable. Perfection is once again unavailable and unwanted.
The petals of the wild flower are what is most readily apparent. Unlike the sterile beauty of the carefully cultivated flower, each petal of a wild flower is unique. The trauma of frost may alter a single petals color, a caterpillar may take it’s morning meal from it’s tender shape, a crease may appear during a high wind - each petal will tell you a story, and each mark is a tale to be told. These marks are not imperfections - they are life in action, changing what it touches, a process neverending. To critique a flowers flawlessness is to blind oneself to individuality, and to the beauty of simply being different.
Gently peel back the layers of the wild flower, and each new layer will tell whole life stories to the careful gardener. The levels are many. Any who take the time will find each level to be vast in and of itself, containing depth and breadth to last for a long time. Those that do not take the time have lost. I pity them.
The wild flower is beauty, inner and outer. It is a shame that the flowers people want are lacking the depth to sustain their interest. I’ll take the wild flower every time.
