Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue...

Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue...

I am not a flower person. Are you? Are you one of those people whose eye is sharper than an eagle’s when it comes to spotting buds? And possess that seemingly psychic ability to foresee the beauty before it unfolds? Or are you like me? In constant need of help in noticing new, and very obvious, splashes of colour in the garden? As I have said, I am not a flower person. I have received flowers in the past and greatly appreciated the thought - until the stems hit the vase water when they take on a chameleon-like ability and become one with the wall paper. I did receive a flower once – a flower which I will never forget. It was a very special flower indeed.

Over a period of 12 months, I was granted the privilege of getting to know two very special young girls. They were two of the most creative and innovative people with which I have crossed paths. Their boundless energy was only ever outdone by their borderless love of life and that which their future holds for them. When the time came for me to leave their ‘world’ it was not only I who was greatly saddened. And yet we parted with the knowledge that we would see each other again – if only now and then.

Last Christmas a family friend, who is also my little friends’ Grandmother, paid us a visit. She came bearing gifts as so many of us do at that time of year. I found two small, creatively wrapped parcels and knew immediately from whom they were. I rushed to open them. The first contained a sea shell and made my day. For I knew how precious a commodity a real, pink sea shell was to these youngsters. The second gift robbed me of my breath. As I unwrapped it, I found myself holding a screwed up ball of alfoil, an old tissue and a small dead stick. Aware of the creativity of these givers, I set about trying to decipher what it was that I had been given. It really didn’t take long. What I held in my hands had been given with so much more love than the sea shell. And meant so very much more. For the alfoil had been intended to keep the tissue damp. Which in turn had been wrapped around the stem of a living flower. As I have said, I am not a flower person - but I will never forget this flower.

I don’t like clichés . Yet the fact of the matter is, that life really is a bitch. It doesn’t matter who you are or where you hail from. You will feel the painful touch of living – whether it be a brushing or a bashing. For no one is immune to life. When we open our own hands of history and find a ball of alfoil, an old tissue and a dead stick lying there, can we not try to find some meaning in them? And if we cannot look back objectively, and consider both the motive and intention behind the giving of these gifts – then can we not look forward? Forward to the precious gift we will be giving to ourselves, when we have overcome this lack of understanding of that which lies there in our hands?