Flower Beds

And I hope to keep growing. I hope that like the other flowers that surround me in this little community, my stem grows sturdier, my leaves grow more lush, and my roots explore further than they ever have. A part of me tells myself that this change is nothing I am used to, that it’s so much more than just growing out of the pod of my seed. I’ve heard it plenty of times from the flowers around me whose roots are already spread generously throughout our bed.​​ The assurance that, “every flower gets its start in these parts of the soil. Every flower has once been young and experienced nothing more than it’s pod. It’s different, and scary, but oh so new and exciting.” And that I must look forward to it. But the difference is that they already know who they are. 

This change means blooming and blossoming, something so defining for the vegetation of these parts. This is a sentiment that truly will make me a flower, hopefully. Something that is both scary, and exciting, and is hard to believe will be something purely good for me, despite the reassurance. I want to grow, especially with the potential to become something so elegant, or bold and colorful, or maybe just something simplistic. No matter what I become, I know I will still be loved. I just hope when that change and growth comes, I can embrace it myself.

But how can I ever be so sure that I will be ready for the change this time? Everyone around me seems so confident in their own individuality, and yet we all seem to blend so beautifully together. Is growing into my own flower bed something I am truly ready for? Will I truly be able to embrace it? Even those who don’t have vibrant or delicate petals after blossoming hold some kind of importance to our little community–grounding us with green among the classic colorful look of our bed of flowers. So what do I have to fear about this change and growth?

I try to look forward to this change of my own as I watch the bumblebees make their daily pass to our part of the garden, when the sun is high in the sky and glittering down on us. They don’t experience nearly as much change in their lifetimes as flowers do. I watch as the bees buzz around and stop to float about with their regular vegetation, along with new ones where they spread their time and efforts equally. Their lives, though so different from mine, are still so imperative and interesting.

Pollination isn’t just a single endeavor after all, we all work together to grow and help each other grow. All vegetation in these parts of my soil know that.

I consider and ponder on how these insects travel each day with some new spontaneity to their usual journey, and how they are willing to make each little adventure more interesting than the last. How these insects have a unique way of contribution and just plain living.

Maybe I wish for a change that instead of blossoming is rather to become like that of a bumblebee. Maybe I wish I had such weightless wings that could bring me anywhere, somewhere much higher and different than here–with the right amount of change on the daily to create consistency. Much higher than the depth of the soil in this bed which my roots have confined themselves to. Maybe I wish to see the world, or even just my community from a different angle–something with a fuller picture that makes me feel more whole. Or maybe I wish to escape the intensely altering and changing experience and expectations of being and becoming a flower. And rather, a yet-to-be flower.

But maybe being a yet-to-be flower has opportunities and experiences that make it all worthwhile. Maybe it holds something I could never ever picture myself wanting to trade for a flightier and more dynamic life. Maybe I embrace that growth better than I ever expected, and am something so beautiful that I can only hope there is more to come.