On normalising aging.
I’ve decided I don’t like orchids that much. I feel hesitant saying this because I was given one as a gift recently. I thought the orchid was beautiful and so it now sits prominently on our console. The petals are wedding dress white with a fuchsia centre. The stem has been attached to a twig so that the plant is trained to stay upright – held straight, its potential for unruliness tamed. That restraint makes the orchid look austere and poised – this even though its sexuality is on full display, its labellum, ovary and stigma protruding for all to see.
I digress.
Watching this orchid day by day, week by week, its beauty has faded for me and I’m trying to articulate why. There are those who spend lifetimes carefully growing orchids. I know there are many classifications and complexities to the flower that experts can wax lyrical about. But sometimes, I look at my orchid and can’t tell whether it is real or plastic. It doesn’t seem to move, breathe or change – it stays the same, day-in, day-out. I check everyday for some signs of movement but I can’t discern any, even when I put my glasses on, hold the plant to the light and squint.
I’m wondering if this is supposed to make the orchid unique and even attractive. People often complain that flowers die too quickly because they don’t last, so what is the point in even buying them? Does the orchid then become an ideal gift because of its longevity? But to me that permanence can make it look lifeless, a fabrication and not belonging to the world we inhabit. Like the other-worldly elves in The Lord of the Rings who never seem to age – or if they do it takes thousands of years – the orchid stays the same, untouched by the passage of time that visibly affects the rest of us.
One characteristic of being human is that we are affected by time. We age, we change, we are impacted by the good and terrible of this planet. Impermanence and scarring are our marks. We are passing through. It’s a reality we obviously struggle with given all the anti-aging strategies we employ – creams, exercise, self-help books, clothing, eating the right super foods, and on and on; the list is endless.
But looking at this orchid – which I am now feeling a bit sorry for since I am picking on the poor plant so much here – it strikes me that it is an example of what we sometimes struggle for but can never achieve: the semblance of immortality. Perhaps orchids do belong to another world and might even mysteriously point to it. A sign of heaven, nirvana, Valhalla? This is beautiful as well.
But when we notice the way of most plants – they brown, shrivel and become fragile – I wonder if this can help us to accept our impermanence. Flowers are not supposed to last forever. Instead, they remind us of our humanity – we change, we transform, we age and we die. We might choose to do things that try to freeze us in time – botox, which will petrify our facial lines for a while, trying to halt the inevitable; or taking magical pills and potions that keep us looking other-worldly. However, might this stop us from accepting our humanity gracefully?
Flowers have a beauty that is fleeting, here one day and gone the next, and this can point to our own delicate transience – we are passing through. I like that. There is a humility and realism there – a groundedness that is humane and attractive. Sometimes when I look at flowers, which I love to buy and put in my home, I am in awe of their beauty; but there’s also a sadness in knowing they won’t last. Is this a waste? What’s the point? Why buy them? I guess we could ask the same question about our lives. Is a life wasted because of its temporality? Whether a life or a flower, both are meant to be fully appreciated for that particular moment in time, and then they are gone.
So on that thought, perhaps we should be buying more flowers as some kind of “spiritual discipline” to help us come to terms with our temporality. And then maybe we should even make it a habit to carefully watch those flowers as they change, colour and brown, eventually withering away, going back to the earth. This doesn’t have to be macabre or hopeless, because we watch and observe this transformation in the hope that we will better appreciate the time we do have as a blessed gift. And we can watch in the hope that, after this final transformation, our cells will transfigure and morph and we will become something else – a thing we only get a glimpse of here.
Rev. Dr Karina Kreminski, Mission Catalyst – Formation and Fresh Expressions, Uniting Mission and Education. Karina also blogs, this article is reprinted with permission from This Wild and Precious Life.
