I came home to find the roses on my dresser shedding.
How can something that appeared still so beautifully in tact have reached a place of shedding?
Didn’t I water it?
Didn’t I give it the proper amount of flower food?
Didn’t I provide it with sunlight daily, for hours?
Didn’t I do e v e r y t h i n g right?
How dare shedding happen?
On a normal day or even a normal season in my life, I would’ve grabbed the petals, threw them in the trash and carried on. (Or at least, I believe I would).
But there was something about the flowers, still beautiful, still presentable, still pretty in it’s color and it’s form, still in the water, with flower food, and sunlight….choosing to shed a few petals that caused me to be both, in awe and uncomfortable.
Maybe, because it illuminated a weakness of mine.
I wrestled between it’s demonstration of trusting the natural processes and being courageous enough to know, when to let go.
It would be both ridiculous and impossible to reattach the petals. (But the truth is, I wanted to).
Just as it is extremely sad to get wind of the end approaching.
I’ve never asked myself the following question but given the situation and my wrestle of why this was happening and if I should attempt to savage what was left of a flower heading into the end zone, I asked myself boldly and uncomfortably:
Is it possible to be a hoarder of dead things and if so, what benefit do they serve?
