“A flower blossoms for its own joy.” Oscar Wilde
Indeed, it does. There is nothing quite like a fresh flower blooming in the yard or in professional landscaping beds or along the side of the road—just doing its thing to make this world a more pleasing place.
Somehow taxonomists have classified the annuals, perennials, and biennials (and hybrids) into about 260,000 flowering species with new ones each year, claiming the number could reach 400,000. I call that just too many to count. I appreciate their grandiose effort, but I’m content to look at them and give thanks that I have eyesight to see them. A bouquet received elevates the mood instantly and satisfies the giver as well. Flowers can soothe the grieving, cheer the ailing, congratulate, and celebrate. They can convey love and passion and caring. Flowers serve in other ways, too—in teas, fabric dyes, beauty products, holistic medicine and edible garnishes; how pitiful would the Rose Parade be without flowers?
Humans are so enamored with flowers that they have tried to capture their fleeting beauty for generations. Artists study still-life and flowers make up their own category in that genre. People adore flowers enough to get them tattooed on their bodies—most popular being the queen of the garden, the rose. Photographers sit and wait for hours for a particular bud to bloom so as to get the perfect shot. Crafters—amateurs and manufacturers alike, create silk flowers plus ones from tissue, wood, metal, fabric and many other materials. Millions of greeting cards feature images of flowers and floral prints abound in clothing, draperies and upholstery. No matter the expense, the skill or the effort, all fall short of the real thing! No representation can equal the perfection that is a real flower.
In Oscar Wilde’s era, bold florals were a design hallmark. Wallpaper in Victorian times was considered clothing for the walls, commonly featuring tropical or botanical prints. As Oscar lay dying in a hotel in Paris, he uttered his last words: “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us must go.” Sadly, the wallpaper remained adhered; I’m grateful his epigram lives on.
Louise Goodhauer is the pen name of a local writer in the Pittsburgh area.