Starting at least 5000 years back in time, they have been objects that express beauty and the world around us. They have been elevated to level of divinity by associating them with gods and goddess(Lakshmi & Saraswathi,sun god Ra and Osiris etc.), They have adorned the thrones of kings and queens (King Khare of Egypt), They have been part of the hymns and chants (Om mani padme hum), they have be part of our literature(Through the Looking-glass) and have helped us communicate even the most intimate of our feelings. They have been the darling of doyens of aestheticism like Oscar Wild and of Romanticism like Wordsworth, Keats and Blake. They through their unassuming and fragile structure open up a wormhole for us to experience a profoundly strange and wonderful beauty of the world we live in, which other wise comes across as a dull and un-eventful existence to our jaded mind. Yes I was referring to those brilliantly coloured, liveliness personified things called flowers.
It is not very surprising that most of our lives we are in company of flowers, but then we hardly cherish our encounters with them like we do of other experiences (trekking, traveling, reading etc.). When one is healing we pray for quick recovery through flowers, when we are sad we look upon them to get over it, when we want to express and explore the dimensions of purity, devotion, hope we resort to flowers. In essence metaphorically, we speak with flowers. But like the diyas/deepas during Deepavali and colors during Holi, they are taken for granted, without us giving any more consideration other than acknowledging their existence. But then I am sure they have more to say than we have cared to listen. All it needs is just stopping by for few minutes when you next pass by a flower swaying happily in the breeze.
Not long ago, on one of my trek, I did take some time to cherish the beautiful wild flowers and it is times like these when you really understand what bliss Wordsworth was referring to when he said
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.