THE MONSOON

I believe that a flower was planted in my heart the day I was born. A flower whose fragility lies within my hands, which I have had the privilege to hold since I was a little girl. I cultivated a home where it can freely bud and choose when to reveal its fleeting beauty with time. And as the prevailing winds of the monsoon urged for the petals to wither, the flower would remain standing amidst the abundant rainfall. 

As I parted ways with the innocence of my youth, the flower in my heart grew. With time, it would reveal petals that my fingertips could trace gently with love. Each petal signified a dream that was so close, yet still far out of reach to fully grasp.

One petal revealed the grace in each step taken across a stage brimming with lights, enchanting the audience with a story never left untold. Another showed the wind beneath my wings carrying me in the direction of the sun and the power of two wheels on an open road that does not end. A petal unveiled a traditional cottage surrounded by flowers and a white picket fence, with warm arms engulfing my presence as innocent laughter echoed across the prairie. And foreseeably, a bookshelf filled with an abundance of words told no other than myself showcased my lasting devotion to serving others in a place where I feel as though I belong.

The flower is both a miracle and simultaneously a tragedy. To hold such privilege in the ability to choose, yet the anticipation of fear inevitably seeps into my body. The guilt of possibly not exerting an abundant amount of effort for even one of the dreams I had foreseen left me paralyzed and absorbed in the subsequent loss.

I used to believe that my hands were made to harvest the abundance that existed before my eyes. That each petal was made to be extracted so that I could be closer to what my heart had always longed for. What I had not realized was that I had been overlooking the true essence of the flower all along—its journey of growth.

The beauty of a flower will charm any person who only admires what lies within its temporary elegance. However, the individual who is truly captivated by its ability to grow, despite the inevitability of change, is the one who finds true fulfillment in periods of bloom and even withering.

Developing acceptance for when the petals would wilt and erode had never implied a complete relinquishment of my dreams. Rather, it signified the strengthening of my roots, for which I have now found a deep admiration. And when the monsoon showers fall from above, I am reminded time and time again that what lies ahead will bring nourishment for the flower. I come to understand the significance of the present and how this season has always been meant for me.

A flower was planted in my heart the day I was born. A flower whose roots have now grown and are anchored throughout each section of my body. I tilt my head back to the sky, allowing the rain droplets to freely fall and drip from my chin like nectar. And for the first time, I realize that the monsoon is filled with such beauty—it is a season that can never be taken away from me.