BY AA PATAWARAN
I will take inspiration from a flower, in eternal bloom, for if it has wilted, is it still a flower? The remains of a flower, a dead flower maybe, but is it still a flower when it is no longer in bloom?
I say flower—and you think petals unfurled, in vivid reds, or blushing pinks, or virgin whites, or sunshine yellows, sometimes blue or violet or orange, the full spectrum. We don’t think brown and brittle like fallen leaves that we can crush to bits, crackling like crackers, when we hold them in our hand or step on them as we walk down the street strewn with poetry in deep caramels and delicate beiges under an arch of slumbering trees.
In her wake flowers shoot forth, a dance bursts out, harmonies awaken, and choirs of devils, nymphs, satyrs, spirits, country maidens, angels, and shepherds dance, shake tambourines, gesticulate wildly, and lay tribute at the goddess’s feet.
—Jose Rizal, Noli Me Tangere (Touch Me Not)
Flowers are forever. In their period of wilting, their colors remain ablaze in our mind’s eye, their petals soft and velvety, their scent lingering. A short memory is all we need for in the nature of flowers life follows death follows life follows death follows life... whether in the cultured gardens, or in our potted paradise, or in the wild. Everlasting is the woman who walks with a spring in her step—and a garland of daisies in her hair.
Little wonder a single long-stemmed rose can perk us up as much as a bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley, as much as lavender buds and chamomile flowers sprinkled on top of the water in our bathtub or a carpet of rose petals on the walkway. There is a sonnet tucked in a crystal vase on the corner table. There is a rainbow perched on the windowsill. There’s a burst of sunshine climbing the fence. There’s hibiscus flowering in your teacup. Between the pages of your chosen novel, pressed hydrangeas and Queen Anne’s lace bookmark your progress, dead as in dead, but alive and abloom as you remember them.
Carry, carry, O flowers,
my love to my loved ones, peace to my country and its fecund loam, faith to its men and virtue to its women, health to the gracious beings that dwell within the sacred paternal home.
—Jose Rizal, ‘To the Flowers of Heidelberg
Were they an expression of love? Were they a note of tenderness? Did you pluck them out of a wreath delivered by courier in a tribute to your achievement? Did someone sling them over your head in a lei that tickled the back of your neck? Or did you pick them off the tree or the plant or the shrub on an afternoon walk, pressing them gently on your nose to get a whiff of the wonderful world? Ah, the language of flowers! How articulate is beauty! How eloquent is silence! Hushed as baby blue eyes in the meadows. Magniloquent as a bird-of-paradise.
A flower holds the answer: He loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, he loves me not... Like a symbol of faith hung like a sampaguita chain on the statue of a saint. All the secrets of the universe are embodied in a single bloom that draws its revelations from light that travels 169,600,000 kilometers from the sun and from the water of life deep in a primeval pool underground. It is speckled with stardust, colored by the entire history of the planetary system, nourished by the good Earth, and worshipped by the birds and the bees on a nectarine feast. Was that the guru Deepak Chopra who said, “In this rose, behold the universe!” as he raised a rose to the view of his audience in Manila decades back, just as we began to embrace New Age lessons as children of a loving, forgiving, generous God who was not above us but within us?
But don’t expect thanks and laurels, crowns of flowers and laurels are the inventions of free people. But perhaps your children may gather the fruit of what the father planted.
—Jose Rizal, Letter to Blumentritt
People are like flowers—we bloom, we wilt, we live, we die. Unlike flowers, however, we can bring as much darkness as we can bring light to Earth’s every corner, death as much as life, mourning like white chrysanthemums at a funeral or bright and cheery like sunflowers at a baby shower. But unlike flowers, there is a chance some of us cannot fully unfurl who we are, unfolding like petals the outside of us to bring out the inside that needs sunshine, moonbeams, and starlight, earth, wind, water, and fire. All in a clamor to return to Eden, which is, in fact, what life is like even now, if we only learn to stop and smell the flowers.
(These photos have been taken during the author’s ongoing exploration of springtime in Türkiye.)
