Clothed in Care
Slow down and really consider the beauty of the flowers today — Life clothes them, and Life will deeply care for us.
There is a quiet wisdom in the way flowers live. They do not rush toward blooming, nor do they strive to be seen. They do not worry about how they will appear to the world or whether they will be noticed. They grow according to the rhythm of light, of soil, of rain. And when their moment comes, they do not hold back. They open.
Perhaps one of the most healing things we can do for ourselves in this fast and fractured world is to take the time to truly see them.
Not glance. Not admire in passing. But really see.
To stoop down and behold the soft folding of a petal, the secret world held within its colors, the dance between fragility and strength. When we do this, something in us changes. A different part of us begins to awaken—one that remembers slowness, that feels wonder again, that does not need to produce in order to belong.
The flowers remind us that there is an ancient care behind the world. A hidden tenderness that dresses the fields, one bloom at a time, without hurry, without demand. This same care, this same benevolent intelligence, is not only for the flowers. It is for us too.
We forget this so easily.
We imagine we are alone in our efforts. We think we must build our worth, strive for our place, prove our value. We exhaust ourselves with worry: Will there be enough? Will I be okay? Am I seen? Am I loved?
But the flowers ask none of these things. They trust the rhythm of Life. They trust that when it is time, the sun will warm them. The rain will fall. The soil will hold them. They do not question whether they are deserving of this care. They simply receive it.
There is a lesson here—an invitation to release the clenched grip with which we try to manage everything. An invitation to stop measuring our value by our productivity or perfection. An invitation to consider that perhaps we are already enough, and that Life, in its own time, is already caring for us in ways we cannot yet see.
To stand before a blooming flower and recognize its beauty is not a small thing. It is an act of remembering. A sacred acknowledgment that beauty still exists in this world, despite all that is broken. And more than that: that we, too, belong to this beauty. We are part of this sacred unfolding.
Perhaps this is why our souls respond so deeply to flowers. They speak a language beneath words—a language our hearts remember even if our minds have forgotten. In their silence, they whisper: You do not need to strive so hard. You are not alone. You are held. Just as I am.
But this message only reaches us if we are willing to slow down. And slowing down, in our age, is an act of courage. It is to step outside the current of urgency that drives the world and to stand, instead, in stillness. To say: I will not rush past what is sacred. I will take time to behold the mystery.
In this stillness, you may begin to notice what you had overlooked—the quiet grace that is always present. The way light falls through leaves. The way the breeze touches your skin. The way the soul softens when given space. These are not trivial things. They are reminders. Threads leading us back to trust.
Life clothes the flowers, and in doing so, Life reveals its nature. Not indifferent, but intimate. Not mechanical, but full of care. And if such exquisite attention is given to a wildflower that blooms for a single season, how much more are we—who carry memory and longing, heartbreak and hope—tended to in unseen ways?
To remember this is to begin healing from the lie of abandonment.
You are not abandoned.
You are not forgotten.
The same grace that brings blossoms into being is at work within you, even when you cannot yet feel it. Even in your waiting. Even in your weariness.
So today, if you can, step outside. Or even just look out the window. And if a flower greets your gaze, let it be more than decoration. Let it be a quiet teacher. Let it remind you of the profound gentleness that underlies all of life.
And may you begin, however tentatively, to believe again that this gentleness has not overlooked you.
That Life has not forgotten your name.
That you, too, will be clothed in care. In time. In trust. In love.
Just like the flowers.
BLESSING FROM MY HEART TO YOURS
Dear Friend,
I love You,
Alma
