Flowers of the heart

(GLO) - When I think of those words, I don't intend to give them a metaphorical title for any belief. It's just that the sweltering days of May keep reminding me of the small, cool garden in my hometown. Whether near or far, present in space or in memory, the flowers of my heart still linger within me.

Time rushes by like a gray whirlwind, hazy and desolate. Yet, the space remains enchanting, lingering in my subconscious: the sky filled with memories of flowers whose colors never fade, whose fragrance never diminishes, and the cooing of birds and the chirping of crickets that never cease. Sometimes, when I miss the sun-drenched colors of the flowers and the chirping of the birds so much, I scroll through my phone's photo album to admire the garden.

The small, lush green garden in my hometown will always be a beautiful memory. (Illustrative photo: VnE)

But that longing is only truly fulfilled when we return, when we push open the gate and step inside, when we immerse ourselves in everything that is most authentic. The real sunlight, warm on the skin. The real scent, stinging the nose.

I was shocked to realize that simple, small joys, amidst the hardships of daily life, sometimes seem too ethereal, too luxurious. So, let's take advantage of this time to sit here for a long time, by the flower-strewn steps, doing nothing, just silently merging into the garden's tranquility, feeling the essence of life welling up within us…

Countless times I silently wondered, when will the Australian cherry tree in my garden bloom? The foliage answered with a quiet green, an innocent green as if to say, "I am a leaf, my job is to be green!" And so I automatically gave it the answer, that "one shouldn't expect too much from a temperate tree in this land of two distinct seasons of sun and rain!"

But at the most unexpected moment, when time had faded into oblivion, the proud, pure white cherry blossoms, swaying gently in the breeze, reminded us of the rare and miraculous things that can still blossom in adversity.

For me, that petal remains vibrant like a gift, a promise, a belief come true. Just wait, even if it's late, the tree will bloom. Just like the peach blossom branch in front of the gate, because it wasn't properly pruned, it's no longer the tree that heralds spring in the garden. It always blooms late, when "Lady Ban is sewing winter clothes for her husband."

The delay has become a tradition, so the peach blossoms of March, blooming in the late mornings of the season, in the winter mornings and summer afternoons, suddenly become a unique charm, holding onto peace and a moment of tranquility amidst the changing weather and the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

I realized that some things seem "out of place" but aren't out of place, "carefree" but not meaningless. At some point, when the time is right, after enough sap has silently accumulated, "the tree will bear fruit" and "the flowers will bloom."

In the garden, there are also flowers that never miss their appointment, even as the sun and rain become increasingly unpredictable. The rose always gives me that hope. In May, as soon as the first raindrops of the season fall halfway down the garden, delicate pale pink petals bloom. Who knows, hidden green buds, round like leaf eyes, just waiting for a moment of rain to stir and unfurl their light petals.

"The delicate-petaled rose" - fragile yet fierce, resilient. Its fate seems to be inextricably linked to storms and heavy rain. I remember one time, in the middle of a storm, two large rose bushes, their blossoms like two pink canopies, were twisted and tossed about by the wind, and in an instant, only two green canopies remained. The scattered, soaked flowers lay on the ground, tossed up into the air by the wind and rain. Such a fragile flower, a flower with a delicate fate…

Yet, a few days later, when the wind subsided, the rain stopped, and the sun had already awakened the remaining resilient buds, the flowers bloomed in clusters as if the storm had never happened. The vibrant life force of these tiny rose petals reminds us of impermanence and also of the belief in the extraordinary that transcends harshness. That belief is enough to nourish the flowers of our hearts, with memories, faith, anticipation, and gratitude.

"The delicate-petaled rose" - fragile yet fierce and resilient. (Illustration: mia.vn)

Sometimes, amidst the garden, surrounded by the cooing of birds, the interwoven scents of flowers and fruits, the occasional calls of chameleons, and the rustling of the wind in the peaceful trees, lingering in the silence easily leads to longing and yearning.

When the mind is not at peace, we fear loneliness; surrounded by the noise, temptations, and gossip of the world, we long to return. The eternal, all-encompassing silence of the garden remains unchanged. But how precious that silence is!

Time and time again, flowers bloom and wither, fruits ripen and fall, fragrances spread and fade, yet the life of the garden remains selfless, devoted, patient, and silent. We are enlightened and deeply understand: In the world of birds, leaves, flowers, and sweet fruits, we are never mistreated. Only we ourselves are sometimes ungrateful…

The clear cooing of birds, the melodious chirping, the pristine white petals peacefully basking in the sun, the gentle, subtle fragrance—all of these are enough to startle us, awaken us, and make us grateful for the beautiful things that are so naturally and simply present around us, so close.

I remember the words of Uncle Nam in the short story "Children in the Family" (Nguyen Thi) about rivers "full of fresh water and fertile silt," which "give coolness to gardens and fields, and from there kindness also arises"; I remember R. Tagore's "The Gardener," and Luu Quang Vu's "Mr. Truong Ba."

I remember the times my father went up to the garden alone, pruning and shaping the trees, diligently tending to the rose garden for his young daughter who was far away; I remember my kind and simple gardener, who would occasionally run up to graft branches, loosen the soil, afraid the plants would wither and regret the budding flowers…

So that whenever I have the chance to return to visit the old garden and familiar paths, the flowers and leaves still gleam with vibrant green, the hedges still bear the neat imprint of the path, and this place remains deserted, untouched by time and loneliness.

Countless drops of sweat and affection silently fell in my place. And I suddenly understood: The gentle land and trees always nurture kindness and goodness in people; the hard work and sweat cultivate faith in people; the bitterness and sweetness, the ups and downs of life, remind us of the eternal truths.

Perhaps life is like a tree accumulating sap; when it's full, buds will sprout. At the very heart of love and gratitude, the flowers of the heart will bloom. These flowers, in some way—whether life bestows them upon you or you find them yourself, whether you quietly cherish and preserve them or give them to someone else—always carry the meaning of faith: that the best things will ultimately remain if your heart is a flower of the soul.

Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/nhung-doa-hoa-long-post586755.html