Roses, Raindrops, and Roaming

Some days are all roses; sunshine brightly pouring over every moment.

People are all joy, laughter. Dancing and singing and twirling last through the hours, people rushing with excitement.

Everyone is bustling with activity, happiness buzzing through the air like bees.

During these days, everything is filled to the brim with life and beauty and sweet scents (which will call back the memories in days to come).

But some days are all raindrops. Dark, stormy skies are swirling around carried by the howling wind.

Thunder rumbles with dissatisfaction, the building pressure and tension setting off streaks of lightning. The whole world seems waiting for the storm to pass.

Everything is dark and cool.

In these days, one knows the rains will pass, leaving the ground strengthened by the sky's' tears, the sky and earth both better for its release. One only has to wait for the storm to pass.

Still some days are all roaming. Clouds passing through the air.

Gray blankets cover the sky, not letting the sun in but not letting the rain fall. The clouds are simply there: quiet, calm, and dreary.

Stagnant. Like a ship sitting in the doldrums, with the waves still and easy but with no wind to give the sails direction.

Everything is stifled. No color exciting, no sound frightening; nothing wrong, but nothing quite right.
Everything is fine but only fine, and, as result, the day is bleak.

These days are filled with drifting endlessly, floating aimlessly, and standing restlessly.

Some days are mixtures. The roaming begins in the middle of rain. The rain drops land on the roses. The roses are found in the midst of roaming. Pain and joy and calm mingle together, squashed into a collage of good and bad.

In the collection of highs and lows, in the mingling of all kinds of days --- there, one finds life.

Beautifully Simple

Once a friend of mine told me to look at a tree.

So I did and commented that it was a very nice tree.

He shook his head and proceeded to accuse me of not seeing it.

I immediately protested,"I see the tree. It’s a lovely tree."

“You don’t see it. How can you not see the tree?”

“It's right there, I'm looking right at it. I see the tree.”

"No, you don't. If you saw the tree, you would be excited right now."

The argument lasted a while, only ending when I showed ample enthusiasm over a particularly exciting leaf. While the conversation was humorous, it made me wonder how many of us really look at our world. How many of us really see it?

While I don't expect everyone to go around getting hyped up about every tree in sight, I do wish we would look more closely, that we would pay attention to the small details around us. Our world holds so many treasures given to us to enjoy, and we ignore them.

How rare it is for us to stop and look at the clouds. For us to lay in the grass and feel the kiss of the sunshine. There is magic to be found in the hot mugs of tea, the sound of crinkling paper, the scent of pine and freshly cut grass; yet, we ignore this magic daily.   

We look at everything around us as 'just'.  Roads are just roads, squirrels are just squirrels, life is just life. In looking at the world as “just”, we miss the opportunity to find the spectacular in the ordinary.

Life is beautiful and filled with beautiful things that may never be more than lovely, but that's okay. If something is already lovely, does it really need to be more? Is it not enough for the stars to fill the sky with light? Is it not enough for the ocean waves to pound upon the shore with a rhythm unrivaled by any drum? Must these things have more purpose than beauty, and must we understand them in order to enjoy them?

There is treasure all around us, value in all the simple things that we just ignore and forget. All these sweet and wonderful things are shoved to the side, written off as just unimportant.

And we do the same to people. We look at the humans passing by and are numb to the fact that they are souls. Lives, being lived as fully as our own. We see the sheer number and think that because people are everywhere, they are ordinary. Pretty maybe, but as commonplace as roses.

They're just people.

Sometimes, we even write off ourselves. We think, or at least I think, “I'm just average. I'm unimportant. Replaceable, expendable, just there for one moment, not to be missed the next.”

“I'm just me.”

Hmph. If we are "just", well then, we're just enough, thank you.

See, just as I think there is magic to be found in all the commonplace around us, I think there's something special about every life. Every person brings something and even if that something is the same thing a thousand others bring, somehow, it's still unique and wonderful.

There is this great word that is explains it well: gestalt. Gestalt basically means “an organized whole that is more than the sum of its parts.”

That is what it means to be human, I would contend. People are more than their looks, their qualities, their personalities. When we get to know someone, it’s more than just their likes and dislikes we're discovering. We're discovering them, their whole, their totality, their pieces that can't be separated one from another.

Because a person is more than just the mixture of their traits and mannerisms. Take two people with completely similar skills and likes and personalities, and you still have different people. To be a person is to be a gestalt.

People are more that just the sum of the different pieces we define them by. You are a whole being, worth more than the sum you bring to the table. I am a whole being, worth more than just pieces that make me.

People might be common but we are each unique wholes of infinite value and as such, not one of us is "just" anything.

You are a masterpiece.

A spectacular something in your own simple packaging.

A treasure to be valued beyond measure.

No matter what, you are beautiful, unique in all the world.

You are not a common rose.

“You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world." ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

“The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched, they are felt with the heart.”

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Things Made of Paper

A father sat in his office, scribbling away. His desk light beat down upon the page and silhouetted his hunched form as he leaned across the table.

The door creaked open and a small head poked in. Bright eyes studied the man’s back, her head tilting and hair falling to the side as she slipped into the room. She opened her mouth to make her presence known, but she was halted in her speech by a grunt and a crumpling of paper. A moment later, the wad of white was carelessly tossed over the man’s shoulder, soaring across the room and landing with a crinkle and a cling within a metal wastebasket.

The girl blinked and her eyes widened, all thoughts of speaking vanished. Her bare feet padded across the wood and little hands landed on the cold rim. She glanced at her father and then peered into the bin, carefully pulling out and examining the discarded page. After smoothing out all the creases and reading the mess of words hidden between scratched out splotches, she looked back into the basket, the bottom of which was covered in wrinkled white spheres.  Her hand reached in.

A moment later, soft footsteps travelled across the room and the crack of light from the doorway disappeared, leaving the man alone with his thoughts once more.

Twenty minutes and six tossed pages later, the daughter returned in similar manner; carefully opening the door as to keep it from protesting creaks, silently plodding into the office. This time she merely glanced at the desk and then the little sprite headed straight to the basket, peering in with sparkling eyes.

With an arm full of pages, she left to the sound of sighs and scratching pen.

The third time she entered, the basket was almost full. The little girl picked up the balls one by one, tucking them gently into the crook of her arm. So involved was she in her work, she did not notice the sound of paper being torn from its notebook and crunched in frustration. Just as the daughter stood up and turned to leave, the paper ball flew toward her, bouncing off her nose and startling her. She fell backwards with a soft thud, papers spilling from her arms.

Pulling herself up quickly, she chased after the scattered treasures. As she leaned over to retrieve her fallen friends, she dropped more. For every page picked up, two more slipped from her grasp. She puffed in surprise, deciding on a new tactic. She dropped all the papers and glanced around the room, spotting what she needed.

In the corner on the comfy chair was a small blanket. She quickly dragged it off the chair and over to her pile of papers. Picking up her treasures, she arranged them on the cloth. Then slowly she pulled the corners together, not wanting to disturb the pile of white in the middle. Now her pages were safely confined in a blanket bag which she tossed over her shoulder with pride. Head held high, she slipped once more out the door, the metal wastebin clanging behind her as another thought was thrown away.

Hours passed and the father’s eyes grew red, his hair mussed by frustrated hands. He leaned back from his writing, rubbing his temples. Glancing at the clock, he sighed, realizing the lateness of the hour. Picking up his page, he read over what he’d written. He shook his head, crushing the paper in his grasp. The father pushed back from his desk and walked over to the trash. He lifted his hand slightly to drop in his last failed attempt of the evening, but stopped in surprise. The basket was empty. His eyes narrowed as he looked around the room.

Not a single page was in sight.

Confused, he walked out into the hall with his paper still in hand. He heard a faint rustling coming from the living room and turned that direction. His eyebrows raised  and his jaw dropped as he stepped into the room.

The family room floor had been transformed into a delicate world of white. Folded flowers were scattered about and a hot air balloon raised with paper clips rested on the edge of the coffee table, with several airplanes lying at its side. Paper had been rolled up to build walls of a cottage, no, a castle which rested elegantly against the leg of the table. Swans and butterflies surrounded the palace, the only subjects in sight.

And there in the center of paper creations sat his daughter, cross-legged on the floor, elbows out, head down in concentration. She was working on shaping a floppy eared dragon to sit atop her tower. When she finished, she held the creature in the air, turning it side to side. Satisfied, she placed him gently on his perch, then turned her head, noticing her father. Smiling brightly she jumped up and hugged him. He continued to shift his gaze from her to her creations with amazement, as she spotted the paper he held.

Gently she plucked the ball from his grasp, patting his now empty hand. The girl plopped herself onto the floor to decide what else to make.

Her father slowly sat down beside her, watching in amazement. His daughter smiled at him and pulled another sphere from the pile next to her, inviting him to join her.

He took the page and carefully smoothed it out. Then he began folding, helping her complete her kingdom of discarded words.