Paradisaea n:o 25 // The Miracle -collection
Warp: hand painted tencel (lyocell)
Weft: japanese bourette silk
“Normality is a paved road:
It’s comfortable to walk,
but no flowers grow."
- Vincent van Gogh
“What makes you different of weird -
that is your strength.”
- Meryl Streep
It’s so strange. And so exciting. And slightly frightening. And so beautiful.
A seed is planted. Just one tiny cell meeting another microscopic cell, somewhere hidden from our eyes. They seem so… small. So impossibly small. And yet they contain a whole universe. They are a mystery, containing all the wonders of a whole world, the miracles of a full life.
The eye colour? It’s there already. The shape of his or her hands? Yes, included. Hair colour? Absolutely. Temperament? That too, it’s all written in the script, it’s all ready. We have no idea, we didn't get to write the script, it'll be a full surprise. We can only wait and wonder.
And so the seed starts to grow. Wonderfully, fearfully made, it grows into the fullness it’s meant to reach. Budding, ripening, preparing itself for the world. And we wait, not seeing, not knowing. Only guessing.
After a long wait they appear; one day we understand that the bud is about to open, and though it all includes a lot of pain, there’s an delightful impatience too. What kind of a flower will it be? It’s just astonishing to know that soon, so soon you will see who has been with you for nine months - what do they look like, what do they feel like, who are they? What kind of a rare flower has grown under your heart?
You see, they are all rare. The rarest of all. No two are alike - have never been, will never be. They may be identical, but they won’t be the same. There’s a spark of something different in them, always, they will always differ from each other. And that is the beauty of it. We are trusted with the care of a unique individual, something no-one has ever seen or met before. It’s amazing: to know that the world would for ever lack something if this specific tiny human was not there, if this flower would not blossom.
It’s quite a task, though - to tend these rare flowers. To understand what they are, and how they need to be treated. To nourish them in the right way, to give them all the light they need, to help them to grow to be themselves. Guaranteed, they’ll meet many people telling them what they ought to be. They will be told they should cut this or that part of themselves off, told not to be so prominent, not to have such a strong fragrance, told not to - well, blossom so much.
But what if that’s what they are meant to do?
To blossom? Without fear? Gloriously? Manifesting the unique beauty hidden inside them?
It’s such a task - to help them to grow such strong stems that they will stand and not bend,
lifting their heads high,
turning their petals to the sun,
no matter how windy it is.
It’s such a unique thing. To be the gardener to a rare flower. To be the one who says that normality is overrated, and it never was anything to go after anyway. To be the one who believes they are beautiful. To be the one who may be, at some point, the only one who may speak this to their hearts. Who can be the power between their beauty and the cynicism of the world. Who knows how the world might change if these flowers were allowed to grow…? They are not like anyone else and that is their power, like it is said.
It’s frightening, frankly. Will I be able to do it? What if I’m the wind sometimes? It might be I sometimes am. But I have a great power for good too.
There’s a thought I’ve held dear for some time now: If I could only recognize the person they are trying to become, and if only I could love that person, then we’d be fine.
And that, actually, stands true for all of us.
So - this first Miracle wrap is for all the rare flowers - all of us, really. And to all the relationships between the flower and the gardener; the child and the parent. To all of us wishing we’d have the wisdom to help them grow, that we’d have a self-esteem to give, and joy to plant into their hearts.
To all of us who may change the world by just… existing.
By being ourselves. By not being normal, for it won’t help the flowers grow.