The Man and the Flower

Under a rich blue sky dotted with the whitest of clouds, at the base of a majestic mountain, sat a cottage on a lane. A nearby stream and several fields of differing crops shared this valley floor. All available land was taken up with the business of agriculture, save for a tiny yard…and an even tinier patch of flowers.

The man was on his knees, gently tending to the flowers. Every day after working the fields he would stop here, no matter the weather, no matter his condition. These flowers were the love of his life, and the attention they received left that in no doubt. He would run his fingers through the dirt, searching for the smallest of weeds, gently pulling them out so as not to disturb the roots of his precious flowers. He would then lightly tamp the soil back down, spread just the right amount of fertilizer, and finish by scooping water with his hand from the pail at his side, letting it trickle out at the base of each of his prize beauties. And all the while, he would speak to his flowers in the softest of tones, encouraging each plant to grow, to reach for the sun, to bloom as full and as bright as was possible.

Passersby could not help but be astounded at the beauty brought forth from this small patch of earth. They would seek the man out, whether he be inside recovering from his day of toil, or outside working the fields. Some would have trouble finding the words they wanted, sputtering out adjective after adjective. Others would wax eloquently of the contribution the man has made to the betterment of all men. The man was always polite and self effacing, smiling, looking down - at times even blushing - as the compliments to his work came forth. But inside he relished it. He knew pride was sinful, but he allowed himself this small transgression. He was a good and honest man in all other respects, so what was the harm in enjoying the compliments brought about by his hard work?

It was during such an encounter that the man realized he was late getting to town. His supplies were unusually low, and he would have just enough daylight to trek into town, make his purchases, and return. He politely interrupted his latest admirer and excused himself so that he could start his trip to town. The traveler, his destination being in the other direction, bade the man farewell as both parted company and headed away down the lane.

As the man walked, he calculated the time needed to complete his journey, compared it to the hours he knew remained in the day, and realized his panic back at the cottage was misplaced. He had a sufficient cushion in his schedule so that he could walk a little slower, stopping, if you will, to smell the flowers along the way. Wild flowers intrigued the man, with the way they managed to grow and bloom without the slightest help from man. But he always found something lacking in their beauty, some flaw, that made him appreciate all the more what he had at home.

It was at his usual resting place, a bench-like rock outcropping halfway to town, that the man stopped for a small snack and a drink. One of the larger clouds in the sky that day had been blocking the sun for some time, which had provided the benefit of making his walk much cooler and therefore more enjoyable. He was finishing his last bite of crackers and cheese, washing it down with some water, when the sun finally broke through the clouds. The sudden increase in daylight was almost blinding, causing the man to squint. He glanced quickly skyward to determine when the next cloud might be passing along to block the sun and cool the air, and realized it would be quite some time. When he looked back to the lane, he was astounded at what he beheld.

Directly across from him, in a thicket of intertwined branches and vines, was absolutely the most beautiful flower the man had ever seen. Its brightly colored petals radiated brilliantly in the full sunlight. The man was breathless, speechless. How many times had he stopped at this same place and not noticed this treasure? He got up from his perch slowly, as if afraid he might spook the flower into running away. He crossed the narrow lane and knelt in the soft soil at its edge, putting him at eye level with his new found friend.

He could detect the faint beginnings of a wonderful fragrance. He leaned in closer to get more as his mind raced to categorize this fantastic scent. Heavenly. No, he willed himself to be more scientific in his analysis. Was it sweet? Musky? Fruity? Yes and no, all of this and none of this. Heavenly. That’s the best he could muster. This most beautiful of flowers had an aroma to match.

He pulled back from the flower to again enjoy its beauty. How could something this breathtaking have grown up in such a harsh environment? He followed the plant’s stem to its base, finding it growing in a few handfuls of dirt that had nestled in the bowl shaped indent of a large rock. Also growing from this cup of earth, he found many weeds. Well this just won’t do, he told himself. With the care and love he usually reserved for his garden at home, the man began to remove the weeds. It proved to be a tricky business, as this most glorious of flowers defended itself quite effectively with a layer of razor sharp thorns running the length of its stalk.

Several times the man pulled back, bloody spots growing on his hands. Don’t you know I’m trying to help, why must you hurt me? He whispered this to the flower several times, always in the most caring, loving tones. He knew that for such beauty to have grown in such a harsh environment, certain defensive measures were necessary. Once in place, these defenses could not differentiate friend from foe. He shrugged as he continued his work.

Once all of the weeds had been removed, the man gently poured his remaining water at the flower’s base. He made a mental note to bring fertilizer with him on his next trip, but reminded himself that this magnificent bloom had survived just fine before he came along. Still, it seemed as though the flower was responding to his attention. The bloom seemed just a little brighter and fuller than when he first spotted it, and the stalk seemed to be just a little stronger. Perhaps, the man thought, this most beautiful of flowers can benefit from my presence. How many have passed down this lane and admired its beauty without having provided anything in return?

The man realized reluctantly that he was now behind schedule, and significantly so. Even hurrying to town, he would still be fighting the darkness on his return and unable to visit again with his newfound friend. The man got up hesitantly, collected his things, and started down the lane to town. He forced his legs to move quickly, but his mind could not leave his resting place and the beauty he now knew it held.



The days passed quickly for the man, for he had a new love in his life. He found himself, at first, finding excuses for going to town more often than normal. Instead of once a week, it quickly became every third day, and then every other. Realizing the complete journey to town and back was consuming too much of his precious time, he modified his trips into once daily visits to his resting place and the beauty that resided there, interspersed with his once a week trips to town.

The time the man spent with the flower was clearly now to the benefit of both. The flower stood taller, stronger, and more beautiful than ever. The man stood taller too, happier than he’d ever been or even thought possible. Just being in the presence of such strength and beauty, and knowing the contribution he was making to the quality of its life, filled the man with immeasurable joy. But, unnoticed by the man at first, the more time and energy he spent on the flower was the less he had for his crops and flowers at home.

The man was a good farmer, and a smart farmer, and was able to use his abilities to mask somewhat the impact of his absence. His crops still grew tall, but maybe not as tall as they had before. His flowers were still beautiful, but maybe not as beautiful as before. A few weeds here and there went unnoticed, the fertilizer was spread a little more haphazardly, and the water now came from a watering can, but to the casual observer, nothing had changed. However, the man knew deep down that everything had changed. He knew of his obligation to his crops and to his flowers. They depended on him, and while his partial attention provided them more than the full attention of others ever would have, he knew he was in some way failing them.

The visits of the man to the flower continued, but often it was with a heavy heart that the man made the trek. He still was enthralled just to be in its presence, he still spoke the same kind, nurturing words to the flower that he always had. These words he drew from the deepest part of his heart, and believed to the pit of his soul. He could not, however, erase the thought that all of this was coming at a cost to those he left at home.

He looked at the flower in front of him. He so much wanted to be the caretaker, the protector of this gift to life, this beauty. But he had…obligations. He knew this wildflower could, nay would, survive on its own, but he could not say the same of those he left behind. He faced a decision he’d already made but denied to himself repeatedly. The course he must follow was as clear as day, but still he resisted. Somehow, someway it must be possible to both nurture this wild plant and provide all of the love and caring he had in the past to those he had at home. Somehow.

No. His mind came to the sad, inevitable conclusion: It was not to be. There was only so much time in the day, only so much love in his heart, and what was spent here was not available to be spent at home. The man sighed deeply. From his kneeling position, he leaned forward, gingerly pulling the flower close, and kissed it goodbye. This was it, the final kiss, the final goodbye. He would still see the flower on his walks to town, but it would never be the same. There would be a distance between them that would only grow with time.

And again he sighed. The man looked around to collect his things, rose slowly, and turned to leave the flower, his flower, for the last time. His mind was numb and his cheeks tear-stained as he started his walk home that evening, knowing he would never experience anything even approaching the joy that these past few weeks with the flower had brought him.