Flowers have a lilting lyrical quality to them. They have no voice, and yet they sing. They sing of life and wonder and beauty, the nectar for our souls. I don't spend as much time appreciating them as I should, but when I do it's always a sublime experience.
Two weeks ago I walked with my camera to Rosie's, a unique cafe that's attached to an expansive rose garden near Charlotte’s Center City. The fragrant scent of blooming flowers was everywhere, floating in the air like freshly laundered sheets billowing in the breeze.
Using a macro lens with a ring flash attached, I moved in extremely close to capture an intimate view of the freshly watered roses. No matter how close I got, the roses seemed to whisper “Come closer.”
What is it about flowers that entices us so? Little children instinctively pick them and give them to people they love. Children don’t need a florist to tell them that flowers are special. With delicate petals and gentle fragrances, flowers sing a song as sweet as any mother's tender lullaby.
Flowers sing freely and spontaneously. They sing through rain and shine, through good times and bad. Yellow roses were on the bedside table the night my Mom's mother died. My Mom was just nine years old at the time, and yellow roses sang to her in a deeply personal way for the rest of her life, bringing memories of her lost mother.
When flowers sing to me, I hear a slow, glorious classical aria – stunning in its outpouring of emotion and its ineffable beauty. It's the song of the universe coming into being, the song of a newborn baby taking its first breath. How remarkable that from the silent rose such a song can come. I'm grateful that I took a morning to listen.
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