Flower petals are a lot like hands—each with their own symmetry and patterns. Our hands covered with lines that act as a mirror to our soul, carrying wounds and scars from our labors. Flower petals vary with each bloom, different patterns gracing their lace whispers. Some petals tear from a blustery day; others remain perfectly intact. Some bend towards the sun, while others crave the cooling comfort of shade. Some stems end up curling and falling, unable to stand upright in a bouquet; some would toss these blossoms, with little to no thought about how gorgeous they can be hanging down from a vase—adding dimension and depth to an arrangement that lacked personality. These peonies were golden reminders of our gentle rising, the way we transition and grow into these bodies and souls. As age is gifted, we begin to relinquish insecurities and constant comparison. Slowly and surely learning to embrace every freckle that resembles a shooting star, every over-thinking thought that we think is too much for another to hold. Release, and let go. All the false voices no longer welcome in this place of creation. I watched these peonies open to the world and then slowly wilt and fade; in every phase of life and death, they effortlessly celebrated precisely where they were. 

The gift. Of this one finite life, the way we are not so different than flowers. Magnificent in all of our phases. May we always take a deep breath and smile, knowing this is true.