So, finally the end has come. Exhausted, I have fallen to the ground and it is only a matter of time before I will lay rotting within its moist soil. My life was brief and filled with toil; I knew only service and the comings and goings of so many who took what little I had and gave it to others. I am spent, I am dried up, I am useless now. My sisters bend down and see my plight and weep for me. Yet they will soon join me. They know this. Such is the life of a flower.
One thing remains a Mystery, and the Mystery itself is what fills me with wonder. There are large creatures, "humans" they are called, who see us differently than we see ourselves. Some of them study us. Us! Simple little flowers! There are thousands of us here in this garden, the only home I have ever known. They say we serve a great and glorious purpose, they talk of a strange thing called "pollination" and say without us the continuity of life would be broken. What? I could not even begin to comprehend what they were talking about. They must be mad.
But this is the thing, this is the amazing thing. In their madness, these human beings simply love us for what we are. They say we are exquisite, they say we possess such beauty that it brings great joy and happiness to them. They write poetry about us, they gaze at us lovingly and touch us gingerly, delicately, with great reverence. They do not cringe but close their eyes and smile as small blossoms from the trees float on the wind to kiss their faces. Some of my sisters were taken into the large structures they call their "homes" where I heard they were pampered and admired. They no longer toiled but, alas, they too soon died. There is no escaping our fate.
I cannot help but think, as I pass from this existence, that I do not have an understanding of what I truly am. Is it important for me to know? No, I think not. I have done my job and I have done it well without questioning. No need to question now. It will soon be over and my sisters, my beloved sisters, will follow in due time. That, along with the Mystery, gives me great comfort as I take my leave.
"What to the bee in nature is merely colour and scent, and the marks or spots which show the right track to the honey, is to the human heart beauty and joy untrammelled by necessity. They bring a love letter to the heart written in many-coloured inks.
However busy our active nature outwardly may be, she has a secret chamber within the heart where she comes and goes freely, without any design whatsoever. There the fire of her workshop is transformed into the lamps of a festival, the noise of her factory is heard like music. The iron chain of cause and effect sounds heavily outside in nature, but in the human heart its unalloyed delight seems to sound, as it were, like the golden strings of a harp."
from Sadhana: The Realisation of Life