Distraction Daisies (it’s a thing now)
Look, there is this life.
And to fill in the vast interminableness of a space quite truly fleeting, we pepper it generously with “shoulds” and “should-nots”.
I should do this, because that, et cetera, et cetera.
Between the spaces of should and shouldn’t rise up small daisies of momentary desire.
Distraction daisies.
Dinner parties, a good book, a good phone call, lingering upon a bench, day trips to a park, day trips at all.
We glance, or we sniff, or we stretch out a greedy hand and pluck that little distraction daisy to make it all our own.
I tend to be a plucker.
Let me take you home, dear petals, to a granite kitchen countertop and put you on display.
Let me give you nourishment as I hasten your demise because hey—you look so good when it happens.
And when with palms flattened on the counter bestride you I’ll stand looking at your wilted form and perhaps I’ll wonder:
“Were you worth it?”
Or better—
“Was I worthy of taking you?”
But here’s the thing:
Why judge the time spent with flowers?
It was there, it was taken, both lives changed because of it, and now the daisy will disappear and you will remain.
Irrevocably.
The door closes behind you and there is no reentrance, only forward into and through more and more closed doors ad infinitum.
Will you continue to gather or will you let the pain of loss, the guilt of the taking, slowly begin to wear you down?
When we were children, enjoyment was a flower and there was no hesitation toward making it ours. Seldom did we clean up messes made in damaged dirt. It was flowers and beauty and beetles, perhaps, hidden here and there within the heart.
But god, can we remember that feeling of unquestioned entitlement? Picking and choosing as we wanted, suffering no guilt for the mastery over our own mercurial moments?
I want to be that child again with her child’s sense of innocence toward the things she may or may not have been doing wrong.
I want to pick a daisy and hold it to my nose and forget the shoulds of days even while knowing a thing is dying right there between my fingers.
We grow, and though we cannot help but to recognize better this death, let it not slow us down.
Hi, you like? Leave a comment? You can just talk about flowers if you want.
Or subscribe to my email list (I promise, no spam)!
The impermanence makes it so much better.
I just imagine you saying the lines, “you look so good when it happens” in a maniacal way.
Also, you write like a poet.
oh you’re a dream. this made me blush like a school girl. Thanks dear Scarlett.
In the words of David Amory, moderation in excess! Don’t mow the field of daisies down but walking by without taking a sniff would be silly.
Good ol’ DA comin’ though for the win!
I found the best way to enjoy the daisies is to take off all my clothes
and roll around in them.
This, by all means, is an EXCELLENT idea.
This sounds like something I would love to read again after getting high… very thought provoking.
haha, well, maybe my brain is just always stoned somehow (except not)
Where did you learn to write like this?
I really like fuchsias, just not how you spell them.
Do you have a favorite flower?
ohhh I blush at the question! I don’t know, though, write like what do you mean?
Yes, that “fuchs” business is *very* annoying.
Favorite flower…hm. There isn’t one coming to mind, but the passionflower is pretty damn amazing. Irises are nice because they remind me of where I grew up.
There is something childhood that is so bleeding obvious sometimes.
I am not convinced that the problem is that we grow older or wiser, that we forget the daisy chains, I think the problem is that we throw childhood away at some point, that society demands that we do so.
This is childhood, and is where I would love to be once more: https://youtu.be/d9pUWfEm-k8?list=PLifh2D1s8025qRPKtJxhpEmNrRUZEBpzH
I think you’re quite right. It’s as though in thinking we’re older that part of the wisdom we’re told we’ll inherit is exclusive to being childlike. Perhaps gently shepherding childhood into adulthood is the wisest thing we can do for ourselves.