During our last grocery shop, I waffled back and forth in the Trader Joe’s flower section. I’d suss out the happiest looking bouquet and be met with a judgmental voice in my head on cue asking, “Do you *really* need them?”, “What’s the occasion?”, “Is this going to become a habit?”. I can recount at least a dozen instances where I’d remove a bouquet from my cart and place them back where I found them.
These nagging thoughts convinced me that I was being frivolous or worse, selfish.
I don’t know where my reluctance stems from. I grew up with fresh flowers in the house courtesy of my mom. We’d watch HGTV together before it was cool. She especially took to a show called Surprise Garden where they’d makeover a neglected backyard or garden while the owner was away. Growing up I would whine up and down the garden section of Home Depot. Little did I know, it would become a beloved adult past time. As basic as it may sound, I enjoy receiving flowers every now and then. Years ago, Jordan made a ritual of greeting me at the airport with a bouquet of yellow wildflowers. It’s our thing.
I’m weird when it comes to shopping for myself in general.
I feel easily overwhelmed by too many options. When I bring something new home, I feel the need to purge something so it can take its place. But flowers are different. For all the hemming and hawing that goes into picking them out, once I get a bouquet past the checkout line, my familiar buyer’s remorse is nonexistent.
I’m drawn to timeless dainty varieties like Chamomile and Baby’s Breath. The understated white blooms put me at ease. When I’m in the mood for fun pops of yellow I seek out Craspedia, also known as “Billy Balls”. I keep a dried handful from my wedding bouquet on our mantle. They look just as pretty as the day I walked with them down the aisle.
If I had to pick, the quirky and joyful Matilijia Poppy is my favorite flower. They’re native to California and are often referred to as the fried egg plant. Like most poppies, they’re incredibly delicate. Since they don’t transport well, I never take for granted seeing them out in the wild. Up close their petals look and move like the tissue paper you’d craft with in art class. I can relate with their sensitivity.
There’s a place for flowers beyond romantic and sympathetic gestures.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that they belong in window sills on an ordinary Sunday afternoon just as much as they do at weddings and beside hospital beds. A bouquet of Chamomile is currently keeping me company as I type on the wobbly table. A gift to me, from me. They’re one of the simplest ways to practice self love.
I tend to divy up my bouquets into halves or thirds, filling makeshift vases of brown glass bottles and mason jars for maximal joy. The tiny bundles get tucked away next to my feather and pinecone collections and other corners of the cabin that make me smile.
Don’t do as I would and waste precious moments of your life in deliberation at a flower stand.
Buy the damn flowers. At Trader Joe’s you can get them for as little as five bucks. Let this be the summer of casting aside doubtfulness and investing in soul-giving moments. The “just cause” flowers tend to be the sweetest kind.
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