The Rich and Noble Gardener
There was once a rich and noble gardener, who did everything well for his land. He cultivated the flowers, fertilized the bushes, and tilled the soil. Often, when the farmer was watering his rich garden of strong, beautiful blossoms, he would come across a few flowers that grew up straggly and weak. They were unfit for the hardy, dry ground out of which they sprung, so the gardener plucked their heads.
Would it not be better for the whole bush if he cut her out?
Yet, one day, as he was pulling off some dead heads on a bush, he came across one wilting, dried out flower, and he paused. He did not pull this one off the branch. Instead, he walked away. The flower was dismayed. Why hadn’t he picked her? She was dying in the wind, rain, and sun, and would it not be better for the whole bush if he cut her out? Would it not be better for her? But now he had abandoned her, and the feeling of desolation and helplessness was unbearable.
Yet not a minute later, to her unbelievable joy, he returned: the gardener returned with shears. Instead of plucking off the luckless blossom, he severed her branch and pulled her away from her brother and sister flowers. He carried her carefully inside, out of the harsh elements of the outdoors. All the while her severed body was screaming in pain, and she trembled with each of the gardener’s movements. The slightest breathe of wind would mean her death, and she almost wished for it.
He planted her carefully indoors in a luxurious bed of rich, moist soil, with only a small number of blossoms around her. Then, for the next several days, he fed her by his own hand, spent hours beside her wilted, bedraggled body, and made her his confidante. He sang to her, spoke to her, and even held her sometimes in his strong, caring hands.
Gradually, she began to bloom. Slowly, with each passing day, her petals unfurled with gorgeous color. Her stem put out roots which grabbed firmly into the soil, and she stood on her own two feet. And whenever the gardener entered the room, she trembled with joy and laughter.
One day, after she had been strong for many weeks, someone left a door open, and when the flower saw it, she thought how fortunate she was to have grown so hardy now, that she could even handle the wind from outdoors. Soon, she thought to herself, I’ll even be able to handle the rain and the sun, and the gardener can transfer me outside again. He will no longer have to care so painstakingly for my every need.
At that moment, a light breeze swept through the door, and when it reached the blossom, she was blown over, and her roots exposed to the air.
So much for her strength. So much for her ability to transplant.
It is over now, she wept to herself. The gardener will see that I am not worth all his time and effort. If I cannot thrive outside, what good am I here in concealment?
Her heart was as broken as her blossom once had been, and even more fervently than before, she wished for the end to come swiftly. Let him end it quickly when he finds me, she thought. Do not let me hear him speak, for I cannot bear to hear disappointment in his voice.
What good am I here in concealment?
She felt the breeze cease. She felt herself lifted up by familiar hands and gently replanted into the soil. Her roots took tentative hold of the ground. Once again, she trembled with the effort to regain her stability and strength.
“Why have you replanted me?” she wept. “Don’t you see I cannot survive on my own?”
“But don’t you see,” replied the gardener, his voice as firm and gentle as his hands. “I don’t value the flower because it grows without care. I value the flower because it is beautiful. You are my own beautiful flower. It matters not how strong you are, or how much care you need: all that matters is if you bloom.”
It matters not how strong you are, or how much care you need: all that matters is if you bloom.