Among the Flowers

It takes all kinds of flowers to make a garden, even the weeds have their place.

Some overflow and nearly begin a riot with color, others bloom quietly and apart. Some mix and some are at their best in solitude. Some petals are silky soft, some are prickly, some are kept safe by their thorns. They intertwine or climb or attach to trees or trail on the ground. They grow wild or up trellises or in window boxes. They come in all colors and all shapes. Some have meaning, roses for love, shyness for daisies, elegance for orchids, daffodils for spring. Each has its own season and scent and yet put all together, they blend and complement and thrive.

She was walking through the gardens, in full habit with her head down in thought and her hands clasped behind her. Her skirts brushed over the grass and dirt in light, steady whispers. She walked aimlessly, sunlight sometimes glinting off her cross. She stopped at the footbridge, I think to pray for a moment, then continued on across the cobblestone path to the wishing well. She sat on a stone bench, gazing at the rusty bucket and the old rock foundation, surrounded by roses and greenery, hands resting in her lap. She sat for some time, still and meditative, a slightly frail looking and elderly nun on a chilly morning, sitting with her black and white habit in stark contrast to the flowers around her. As I passed her, she nodded to me with a small smile and said Good morning, my child. I smiled back and said Good morning, Sister.

How like flowers we are.