tales for dreamers: the necessity of flowers

For the longest time it was thought that the bees led the way, but only recently has it been discovered that it is, in fact, not the bees but the flowers who lead the way.

There are no well-trodden paths in this world. Every footprint or paw print  is promptly erased by a swift growth of grass or by a shape-shifting patch of mud. A bush plants itself overnight to obliterate any trace of who might have passed this way, to annihilate any clue about the existence of the path itself.

This lands the seekers in big trouble. Without a path, they know not where to turn. Without a trail, they know not which way to go.

The trees and the grass and the bushes won’t help the seekers. They deem that anyone worthy of traveling on the path would already possess innate knowledge of it, not go about seeking clues and hints in the woods.

But the flowers are kind. They understand that the seekers are trapped in a conundrum of their own making and don’t know how to come out of it. So they have begun whispering to some of the seekers in a secret language only they understand.

Follow us, they say. We’ll show you the way.

The seekers do as they’re told. Until they reach the last of the flowers and are once again faced with those quintessential questions. Which way do we go? Which way do we turn?

Until one of them comes up with a brilliant idea. We need to plant more flowers. As they bloom, they will reveal more of the path to us.

This gives them something to do, and that makes every seeker happy. 

For a while.

Now they’ve planted the seeds and bulbs. Now they have to wait until next spring before the flowers come back. Now they moan that there is no way to coax even the kindest flowers out of the soil before the long, cold winter has passed.

Pity they still haven’t figured out that the flowers’ messages next year will depend almost entirely on how well and with how much faith and patience the seekers will spend this season of waiting.

Last week's image info: Little D was skipping on a trail at Niagara Glen when it occurred to me to write a tale 'about my favourite woodland creature'.