Summer Diary: When Fuchsia Roses Rule

Everywhere this summer, fuchsia roses reigned.  Everywhere! What is this I wondered? I am all for pink, really, all of me is for pink. But everyone knows that one does not mess with fuchsia. It is one of those colors best enjoyed in little doses. Which is why I was surprised that several thought it the thing to have so much of the pretty noise, in roses, dancing loudly under the hot summer sun. It did not bother me, being a color abuser myself I was very happy to observe how distasteful it all was! The thing is I did not know my complaints were a form of admiration until much much later. 

Well, you know how it is, confusion takes over the land where fuchsia roses rule. Because they were always in one’s face when one went out for a little air, I suppose it is natural that one would start to feel curious about them. Thus the question came to me, from I don’t know where, did these screaming flowers smell like roses? I poked my nose into a flower for an answer. Yes, indeed, it smelled like a rose. But a good whiff turned out to not be enough. I started getting the urge to take a bend and bring my nose down to a flower every time I  walked by a garden with them. I suppose the colors sort of just called out to one and it was difficult to resist their friendliness. 
It did not stop there, merely started there. I started becoming curious about the other flowers in the gardens I encountered. What did they smell like? They too deserved my bows, didn’t they? On this subject, however, I was not so lost to curiosity that I was unconscious of my surroundings. I felt the strangeness of my new flower smelling fixation and did not wish it to be witnessed by others. I was embarrassed for it seemed a bit too cliché, too silly. I did not want to be talked about by the neighbors. It’s one thing to appear a fool among strangers, it is another thing to do so among people who see you all the time. So I would wait and dip in for a smell when no one was about. Or I would linger until everyone had walked on. Thankfully this excessive need to operate in secret did not go on for too long. I soon became aware of the foolishness of my embarrassment. What did it matter if my neighbors thought me clichéd? What did it matter if I appeared silly to others? I am silly. Who cared if they laughed at me? I am laughable. Why am I looking around  and waiting to do something which is not at all a bad thing? Would I think unkindly of someone if I were to come upon them poking their nose into a bush of flowers? Of course not. 

I stopped looking about when I found a flower that called out to me. But just because one knows not to be embarrassed does not mean that one can stop feeling embarrassed, immediately.  At first I would hurry when I felt the presence of others, even though I was careful not to look at anyone or meet any eyes. But I realized that I was not getting the scents of the flowers properly. I was too anxious, I was not doing things as I ought to. So I thought I must either do it properly or not at all and no matter how loudly my heart beats, no matter how many people walked by the moment I dove in for a scent, I would just take the time to smell whatever flower is under my nose, properly. 

Summer is almost done now and many of the flowers in my neighborhood are showing signs of dying. Although I have not lost every bit of the uncomfortable feeling that crawls upon me when I go nosing about in these flowers, I am enjoying the new habit of taking a few seconds to appreciate these beauties on a daily basis. They feel like friends. When I walk by I remember their scent or lack of scent,  and when I lean in for a good whiff, it really feels like visiting with an old friend. It’s like saying, “How are you today?” “Are you well?” Or, “Your petals look quite pretty in this morning light!” Sometimes I walk by a flower I had smelled and it feels very good to see it there gently swaying, as if it were merely waving at me. And sometimes I would notice that a flower whose scent I had taken the day before is no longer present, I then stop and allow myself a moment to recall our moment(s) together and say goodbye. 

—
J. A. Odartey 

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