Signature Springtime Signs

Today is day fifty of my writing challenge. My latest book compilation is entitled Soulful Sojourns. I am an observational, inspirational writer, with a conversational tonality. I see, I state, I offer a way of perceiving, while speaking to the reader like a friend. Feeling familiar with fellow humans is what we all crave, isn't it, dear one? Don't we all want to be seen, heard, and more significantly, understood?

I am recognizing more each day, what gets in the way of close connection. The injustice of not being seen, not being heard, and not feeling understood in significant ways, can make us feel like we have to fight for a place in the hearts and minds of those that seem to ignore who we are and who we want to become. These humans, the ones we crave affirmation from, are doing the exact same thing ... longing for, looking for, searching for confirmation of some kind of esteem and valuation: I use the term valuation as being richly appreciated. 

To be richly valued is to be seen, heard, and wonderfully, understood 

I see you

I hear you

You are wonderful

I understand

This past week, I longed to see springtime signature signs of hope. It is the crocus that I looked for and to my delight, I saw a row of inverted cup like white heads, hanging from thin stocks of green. I told God when I spotted them, I know the snow will shoo them away, just like it does every spring. The crocus is delicate and brave, the first of the flowers that spring forth from soil still chilled from the cold. 

My guess is people are a lot like croci. Flowers are beautiful and bring bursts of joy to onlookers: they exist to uplift. A flower may seem delicate, and perhaps people that are flowering are just that, delicate. They are not meant to be mistreated and roughed up. Silky pedals are precious and soothe the soul of those that gently, lightly, touch. 

Finessing touch ... 

To mishandle a flower, is to misjudge, to judge wrongly ... to mishandle a human is much the same. It is a cruelty that accuses the abuser, and the flower remains pure, innocent, and in timely good weather, will bloom again. 

Make of my metaphor what you will, dear reader. As a yellow crocus, I pray that you, my crocus friend, understand how wonderful you are, braving the cold while beautifully blooming, where you are planted.