Much as I love fresh flowers, I am fascinated with watching them age. These lilies were in my study at home, fading and drying, in their own way as beautiful as they were fresh cut. The colors intensify as the petals dry. Curves and ridges appear, reflecting the late afternoon light. And at the last there is a barely audible rustle as the petals surrender to gravity, one following another. When I go down for the day, I gather the fallen petals and pull the last few stems from the vase. Dust to dust.
Like the flowers, I am aging, though not that fast. Wondering if my colors will deepen, and whether my wrinkles will be as interesting in the late day sun. Will I rustle as I surrender bit by bit? (I feel more inclined to shout these days, but that's another post.)
I want to age intensely, intentionally. To offer up, rather than give in.
