By Tommy Housworth
“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.”
— Henri Matisse
Our neighbor’s tulips came up today, bursting with defiant vibrance. They rose in spite of the stubborn Shenandoah soil, the tariffs on fertilizer, and the mid-spring freezes. Springing free in the face of calamitous headlines and the clumsy paws of feckless feral cats, their tunics unfurled, anthers dancing in the breeze. Being tulips, they simply exist, free from guilt.
I love how unconcerned the tulips are with all of it. They know no fealty nor predilections. The weather, that reliable topic of conversation for humans in our dotage, is the only thing on their fertile minds. Rain to drink, sun to warm, shade to cool. Some last only a few days; the more resilient persevere for weeks. They are the essence of impermanence, yet are profoundly unbothered. Death is, after all, nothing more than a winter’s sleep, a chance to become reacquainted with the night, perhaps nestled under a blanket of snow. Then, Resurrection Day.
I have no idea what goes on inside the mind of a tulip, but I’d like to think they mostly think of Chet Baker songs. His voice frail, yet assuring. His horn lonely, yet a cause for communion. His songs live in the April winds of Amsterdam and float at just the right frequency for supple serenades.
I hope our neighbor’s tulips hear the Sunday buskers on Beverley Street and lean into the quaintness of our small town. I hope their roots can somehow absorb the mango-lemon gelato spilled on the sidewalk by a careless child, too enthusiastic to know to slow down lest she tumble over her shoelaces. Mostly, I hope they see me seeing them, on those rare occasions I bother to notice.
I hope their indifference extends to not caring about my oversight. I hope they understand that, as Jack once said, I have nothing to offer this world except my confusion. I don’t want them to think I am ungrateful. Ungrateful is, to my mind, the worst thing one can be when tulips are in bloom.
Tulips are, after all, the smallest of sanctuaries. Stamens encased in stained-glass stigma. They are perennial temples gently urging their petals ever closer to paradise. To bear witness, no tithe is prescribed, no offering plate passed. All they ask of us are two precious and endangered commodities: our attention and our wonder.
Matisse was right. There are always flowers for those who want to see them. Today, I wanted to see them.
Today, that was enough.
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Read more from Tommy at his substack, A Sense of Wonder: https://tommyhousworth.substack.com/