A personal reflection – Wake Up Retreat at Healing Spring Monastery

The flowers in the monastery field bloomed this morning.

I walked the same path I’ve taken every day this past week—quiet, familiar, worn by my footsteps and the rhythm of my thoughts. But today, something shifted. The light fell differently, or maybe my eyes were simply more open. Suddenly, color flooded my vision, as if someone had turned up the saturation of the world.

What had only yesterday been small, closed, and unyielding buds—tight fists of green and purple—had burst open overnight into radiant yellow. They stood tall above the grass, bright like lanterns, glowing in the morning sun. They reached upward with a gentle urgency, petals stretched wide as if in prayer, welcoming the warmth of a new day.

Butterflies hovered. Bees circled. It was as if the flowers were calling them—offering themselves without hesitation, saying: Here, take from me. I have enough now. I’m ready.
And in that exchange, there was no fear, no resistance—just a quiet readiness to give, to be part of something larger, to feed the journey of another.

Each flower stood on its own, separate, distinct. But together, they formed something much greater than the sum of their parts—a blanket of golden joy, spread generously across the field. It was beauty in its most honest form. Not designed or arranged, just grown—alive, and quietly magnificent. A kind of love that needed no explanation.

But they had already been here.

All week, I had laid on my back in that field, gazing up at the sky. I’d seen their stems pushing through the earth above me, noticed their tips gently nudging into the air. They were part of the horizon, part of the wide blue expanse, silently announcing their arrival.

Sometimes I walked barefoot, letting the grass and stems tickle between my toes, unaware that I was treading through a miracle in progress.

In a few months, they will wither.

The golden hue will fade into brittle brown, the soft petals will crumple, and the butterflies and bees will pass them by. Their time will end, and the memory of them might dissolve with the change of season. We’ll forget how vibrant they once were.

But they won’t be gone.

Their roots will remain, nestled deep in the earth, resting. Waiting. Holding onto the promise of return. All they’ll need is time. And sunlight.

And when the moment is right, they’ll bloom again—quietly, without asking for attention—offering beauty to the world once more.