Of fallen flowers
Green little blades littered across the grey pavement as I made feeble attempts to avoid them with bigger strides. Their hues sang out the stories of life and vibrance, yet I knew I was staring at death. Little little deaths scattered all the way, along the path which I was running on.
No, I am not depressed, nor am I a skeptic of life. But I had once heard of some parable, maybe in some korean drama watched over the shoulders of my sister, or perhaps one of those philosophical tidbits for inducing some obscure sense of wisdom: the story of life made alive through the occurrence of death. The seed is buried, dead under lumps of mud, in order for that green, life-giving and awe-inspiring life of a tree to sprout forth. This seems to be a basic truth in many things around me. The muscle dies, in order for it to grow back even stronger. The saying “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” seems nevertheless to suggest some element of death preceding the strengthening. We all fall asleep, wake the next day, refreshed and more alive. And the greatest example, the Lord Jesus Christ, died on a hill, then rose again, alive, and not just Him, claims to have made everyone who believes in Him, alive in Him. Life from death.
Along my runs in the evenings and mornings, all these fallen leaves and flowers never struck me as beautiful. Sometimes, even icky when the rain just passed, leaving them wet and sticky. But one particular evening, the greenery on the trees inspired a little something in me. And the greenery on the floor gave me a little boost in my steps. The vibrant greenery on the floor, loosely scurrying around as runners, walkers and bicycles tread upon them. There is beauty in those little little deaths.
As I think of them, I am reminded of life. Of memories. Memories. Moments that have died, yet now lives eternal in our minds. Almost like a living parallel to the belief in an afterlife. The moment dies, and becomes immortalized almost altogether with its death. And there is beauty in that.
And I feel strengthened in that parable. The parable of immortalizing of memories. That death is not something to be feared, but something which points to the greater. Death points to the absence of life. And so, death is a reminder of the the life that we truly need. When I fail at something, I remember that this failure is a seed to success. When a joyous moment has passed, that nostalgia is not just a clinging onto the past, but an encouragement for the future. I noticed this longing so strong for moments, of euphoria that slips by just right when it comes. As soon as I thought I have found it, it has died into a memory. I think someone like C.S. Lewis would have described real Joy like that. Joy, the glimpse of the eternal Good that is not to be found here in this temporal world.
When I see fallen flowers, I remind myself that the earth is in birth pangs, that mankind is in birth pangs, that for a reason, memory has been immortalized, Joy is but a glimpse, and eternity is imminent.
Green little blades littered across the grey pavement as I made feeble attempts to avoid them with bigger strides. Their hues sang out the stories of life and vibrance, yet I knew I was staring at death. Little little deaths scattered all the way, along the path which I was running on.
No, I am not depressed, nor am I a skeptic of life. But I had once heard of some parable, maybe in some korean drama watched over the shoulders of my sister, or perhaps one of those philosophical tidbits for inducing some obscure sense of wisdom: the story of life made alive through the occurrence of death. The seed is buried, dead under lumps of mud, in order for that green, life-giving and awe-inspiring life of a tree to sprout forth. This seems to be a basic truth in many things around me. The muscle dies, in order for it to grow back even stronger. The saying “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” seems nevertheless to suggest some element of death preceding the strengthening. We all fall asleep, wake the next day, refreshed and more alive. And the greatest example, the Lord Jesus Christ, died on a hill, then rose again, alive, and not just Him, claims to have made everyone who believes in Him, alive in Him. Life from death.
Along my runs in the evenings and mornings, all these fallen leaves and flowers never struck me as beautiful. Sometimes, even icky when the rain just passed, leaving them wet and sticky. But one particular evening, the greenery on the trees inspired a little something in me. And the greenery on the floor gave me a little boost in my steps. The vibrant greenery on the floor, loosely scurrying around as runners, walkers and bicycles tread upon them. There is beauty in those little little deaths.
As I think of them, I am reminded of life. Of memories. Memories. Moments that have died, yet now lives eternal in our minds. Almost like a living parallel to the belief in an afterlife. The moment dies, and becomes immortalized almost altogether with its death. And there is beauty in that.
And I feel strengthened in that parable. The parable of immortalizing of memories. That death is not something to be feared, but something which points to the greater. Death points to the absence of life. And so, death is a reminder of the the life that we truly need. When I fail at something, I remember that this failure is a seed to success. When a joyous moment has passed, that nostalgia is not just a clinging onto the past, but an encouragement for the future. I noticed this longing so strong for moments, of euphoria that slips by just right when it comes. As soon as I thought I have found it, it has died into a memory. I think someone like C.S. Lewis would have described real Joy like that. Joy, the glimpse of the eternal Good that is not to be found here in this temporal world.
When I see fallen flowers, I remind myself that the earth is in birth pangs, that mankind is in birth pangs, that for a reason, memory has been immortalized, Joy is but a glimpse, and eternity is imminent.
She was in a bright pink pram, lying in a mess of little pillows and bolsters. Her mum held her milk bottle in place as she cluelessly sucked at the goodness oozing from the tip. Her eyes wandered fro
A glowing, radiant lamb strides into the darkness. The thick evil withdraws as He enters into their hold. They can not stand in His presence, so they bow down in fear, trembling, scrambling to get out
It was like a world full of men made of paper, and the world was coming to an end as there came a great downpour. Torrential rain and thunder tearing through the skies. The little papermen huddled tog
Originally published at https://hjianfeih.wixsite.com on October 10, 2020.
