I love looking at flowers. Even hemlock growing wild is so pretty, flat clusters of tiny snow-white petals. And thistle flowers, purple and spindly and feisty. Multicoloured fields of wildflowers. Not to mention the ones you actually get at florists (too easy. I figure gratitude should require some effort.)
Flowers remind me that everything has a function, and if yours is to stand there and look pretty, well, then, lucky you. (Okay, okay, I am aware they– and beauty– have important functions in the life cycle blah blah blah. I was being facetious.)
Flowers also evoke such strong, pure feelings. Daffodils, for example. I love daffodils. My cheek muscles can’t help but break into a huge smile, a small but intense spark of joy ignites somewhere between my lower ribs, and I almost drop to my knees when I see the first daffodils. Spring is coming, they seem to whisper, shyly, hesitantly, mistily, we feel it in the earth. They are so fragile, live so briefly, but bring such joy. Remember, ya, that this comes normally at a point when I am nearing the end of my rope because winter has just been too dark, too cold, and too long, and I am starting to go a bit cuckoo from lack of sunlight.
Yup, I’m grateful for flowers.