Recently I have developed a desire to have cut flowers on my table. This is not normal for me at all. I have always disliked cut flowers. Oh sure they are delightful to look upon and do “brighten” up a room. Most have a wonderful fragrance that one ocassionally notices as a feint and enchanting message from nature while passing by.
But I have always thought of them as a morbid reminder of the impermanence of life. Initially, they stand there, proud in all their glory, radiant, beautiful, flashing their striking colours, emitting their sweet perfume, bringing joy to those glazing upon them. The onlooker sometimes envious of such perfection, such splendor, conjuring images of a bright blue sky, vivid, lush green grass and the warm rays of the sun glowing down upon their leaves and petals.
Stop for just a moment now and imagine being that flower. Perhaps you are a purple tulip, happy and content with your roots firmly in the fertile earth. Your extended family growing and thriving all around you. What a magnificent moment captured in time. You are gorgeous, stunning, spectacular and divine. A powerful, amazing and so alive.
Suddenly you are severed, cut in two, detached from your cool soil. Pain strikes through you as you struggle to comprehend the sensation of a cold blade. Your vital fluid begins to leak out and you try desperately to cling onto it. You are moving but not as you know movement to be, not like when the wind caresses you but harshly. You fall and land upon family members all crying out in pain. The pain is so intense you don’t notice the bruises from the fall. You are not aware of a torn leaf or a lost petal that was ripped off in all the chaos. Others fall on top of you. The scene is more evil than you could ever have imagined. And you know in that moment that you are dying.
The little corpses are gathered together in bunches and arrive in our lives under the guise of bringing happiness. Whether given by loved ones or bought by ourselves, cut flowers are symbolicly cheery, often representations of love.
I, however, have always seen them as victims of human butchery, their fields sights of decimation. They are the casualities of man’s desire to control nature.
So why have I been happily bringing them into my home of late? Because they are pretty.