complaining again?

Look at the changes the flower makes in a week, a day, a moment. It’s course is set, it has no say in how it lives and grows. Daily changes in the heat and cold, wet and dry, work to determine the ebb and flow of its beauty. After all it has endured it simply gives of its life, its patterns, its design and then — it dies.

I hope I can accept the days’ pains and problems with even half the dignity of the chrysanthemums and that I grow, even bloom through adversity, finding what I may have within to share with those I meet until I also die.




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