Magic of being among nature’s colourful joys

Almost every morning, even before the sun’s rouser, I can be found at my writing table, next to the large window of my bedroom. As the sun slowly begins to rise, my face keeps turning towards the window every few minutes to clap my eyes on the large balcony peppered with pots of enthralling flowers. They make me smile, sometimes even indulge me in a poetic monologue, which showed up just a few weeks ago, reminding me constantly – it’s the season of flowers.

Their cheerful faces, despite a brief glimpse, offer me an uncommon cheer and calm, and end up keeping my mind far away from any writer’s block, an irking enemy of every writer. They will never know that they also take away my tiredness and have armed me with many writing ideas.

And it’s not that I enjoy their company only from my window as it has become a ritual for me to sit with them. Every time I meet them, they greet me, with all their jubilance. Just peacefully observing the flowers is utterly soothing; the names of most of which aren’t known to me, neither have I made an effort to find out. Maybe their beauty is enough for me which has also beautified the balcony as many of our neighbours and guests fervently express.

“Flowers are music of the ground. From the earth’s lips spoken without sound,” observed author Edwin Curran, while poet Ralph Waldo Emerson viewed, “The earth laughs in flowers.” I’m reminded of the thoughts of many a writer as I go on gazing at the colourful joys and their winged guests, especially butterflies. Like flowers, their wings eloquently echo –there’s nothing above nature’s creativity, certainly far above any human’s imagination.

Some pots make my joy whistle dramatically, considering four varieties sitting together in them, presenting me with a captivating rainbow and I adore the mélange of fragrance they roll out. Occasionally, I don’t mind sticking my nose so close to them. These delights of nature follow me also on the rooftop, where I spend hours reading. Many surround the wooden bench, where I sit. They are my peaceful companions during breaks as I contemplate on what I’ve just read.

During such sessions, when the phone rings, I end up praising them. “Their company is magic,” I tell all. But praising them, how can I forget who planted them and looks after them as his own children. He is no professional gardener, but my father, who brightens up our home with his love for gardening.

From the window, I often catch him stirring the soil in pots, watering them, without seeking any servant’s help or employing a regular gardener. He spends hours in our little garden. I recently suggested he get a large wooden boat, to create another little garden – an idea borrowed from a hotel’s park in Auckland.

Dad is in his best mood whenever he is busy with nature’s colourful joys. Through them, he not only nurtures his own soul but also of many others around, including me. Gardening is one of nature’s best wonders. And all I can say to him is a warm, “Thank you, Papa!” rameshinder.sandhu@gmail.com

The writer is an Amritsar-based freelance contributor