The Parable of the Flower and the Wind

   Once upon a time, in a forest, there was a flower. It grew in a meadow and did not remember how it sprouted from the earth. The first thing it learned about the world was the touch of the Wind.

   The Wind was everything to the flower—its voice, its breath, its power. And the flower rejoiced when the Wind was calm and gentle. Then the flower would bloom, feeling itself to be a part of this world.

   But it was not always so.

   Sometimes the flower would simply stretch toward the light, trying to find its own position. And at that very moment, the Wind would suddenly jerk, begin to rage, and brush against the petals as if recoiling from a burn. The flower did not understand: “What did I do?”


   The flower had no words to name this. It only had a body and sensations.


   This was not the thought “I am bad.” It was a pre-linguistic pattern, woven from tension and relaxation, contact and rupture. A bodily truth, stronger than any logic: “My presence changes the weather. And this change is not for the better.”


   “Proof that I am not dangerous” for the flower meant something very simple:“I can be here. And the Wind will just blow. It won’t jerk, it won’t turn to stone, it won’t leave. It will just blow. And nothing terrible will happen.”

   As it grew older, the flower sometimes saw how other flowers in the meadow swayed in time with the Wind, laughing at its gusts. It did not understand how this was possible. For it, the Wind was not a dance partner, but a master of mood, which it, the flower, unwittingly disturbed with its very existence.

   One day, a Gardener came to the meadow. He was not like the Wind. He was quiet and predictable. He watered the earth, and the water came exactly when he tilted the watering can. He spoke to the flowers, and his voice did not change from their rustling.

   The flower, trembling, decided to conduct an experiment. When the Gardener was nearby, the flower slowly, by a millimeter, unfolded one petal that it had always kept pressed down. It waited—any moment now the Gardener would flinch, turn away, his hand would tremble.

   But the Gardener simply smiled.— What a beautiful curve, — he said calmly. And he continued watering.

   The flower froze. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. Its petal was unfolded, and the world did not collapse. The Wind that day was light, and it did not change either.

   This was the first brick. Proof.

   The flower began with tiny steps. Unfold another petal. Sway a little stronger. Emit a quiet fragrance. And each time it looked at the Gardener, at the Wind, at the sun. And it saw: they remained themselves. Its movement did not cause a catastrophe. Its existence was not a violation of the rules.

    It did not believe right away. The old pattern was strong. Sometimes, out of habit, it would shrink up, expecting a storm. But no storms came. Gradually, day by day, a new knowledge accumulated in its stem—not verbal, but bodily. The knowledge of silence after movement. The knowledge of the world’s calm breathing in response to its growth.

   It still did not understand why the Wind had once jerked away. Maybe the Wind had its own wounds that were not connected to the flower. Maybe the Wind was just different.

   But this was no longer so important.

   What was important was that the flower finally straightened up to its full height. Its bud opened without looking around. It drank in the sun because it wanted to drink. It swayed in the wind because it was pleasant. It no longer sought permission. It simply was.

    And it turned out that the Wind, seeing it like this—whole and not expecting trouble—began to blow more evenly and gently. Not because the flower had changed the Wind. But because the flower had stopped being afraid of itself. And in this silence of fear, one could finally hear the simple breath of life—not a threat, but simply weather—such as it is.