The Parable of the Flower

One day, a mother went out into her garden and found the most beautiful, exquisite flower. Knowing there was something very special and profoundly true about this flower, she invited her entire neighborhood over to witness it’s splendor. The greatest minds of her community meditated day and night on this flower, discovering sublime insights about the nature of it, themselves, and all creation. This went on for some time, and everyone benefitted from it’s presence.

In another place, time, another person went into their garden and found a different, yet still special, profoundly true flower. In much the same way as the other discovery, the flower benefitted the community in which it was grown in many ways, large and small.

This happened again and again in the course of history. And as time passed, as it often does, these different communities began to meet each other. However, instead of gathering together and combining their shared wisdom to perhaps discover more complex wisdom, they fought. The fought over whose was more beautiful, more true, more beneficial. In no time at all, the people were behaving contrary to their wisdom, yet saying this was exactly what their beautiful, true flower had revealed to them.

As the people fought, the flowers grew crippled in their beauty, their truth, until it was hard to tell that they were even flowers anymore. Some now died from neglect and oppression, taking their beauty and truth into the void of death.

Yet, still the Great Compassion that each flower revealed in their special way, existed. And some, perhaps even you, can again cultivate the beauty, the truth that has been crippled or lost.


13 thoughts on “The Parable of the Flower

    • Thank you! I’ve been off for way too long. I think I got overwhelmed by the whole “post everyday” thing, and then eventually just avoided it. Then I was out of town.

      But yes, good to be back. I hope life has been treating you well, my friend!

  1. Just want to share with you a poem that came on a packet of seeds I received last weekend, the poem is by a local poet, Kristin Hannaford, for she is far better with words than I.

    The Flower Hunter (by Kristin Hannaford, for Ellis Rowan)
    Everywhere, she seeks flowers.
    Great busts of tropical largesse, bold leafed
    and generous like a twin-hearted woman.
    Venturing deep into monsoonal thickets
    or scrambling over sharp karst, the braided
    trusses of her boots are muddied by unseasonal rain.
    She listens for the grainy humming of bees,
    bees swollen in praise of Lysiphyllum hookeri – Bauhinia,
    unfolding the candlewhite of blossoms. Fiery antennae –
    red stamens – intuit her arrival; upright and attentive
    as the artist enters the forest of her brushes
    I’m always partial to wild flowers, the community of freedom they live in, free and untethered. Here today apart from be Fathers’ Day way down here, it is also Wattle Day, our national floral emblem.

    One hopes sometime in the future, that the flowers can “cultivate the beauty, the truth” once again.

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