Tiger Lilies

Disclaimer: This is not the post you guys were waiting for. I just decided to post this so I can buy a little more time for the other one! Enjoy. It was for lit.

A step (with a 5x optical zoom-in) closer and I have it captured. Drops of water and its own signature dark spots alternately freckle each petal, selectively, capriciously even. The lucid liquid magnifies an orange vibrance that lies, eclipsed, beneath. Stabilizing my Macro-enabled shot against my chest, I continue to photograph rapidly and desperately, hoping to bottle up this beauty safely within my treasures. Releasing the lily from my grasp, I allow it to spring back into a large bundle with the others. The sweeping movement triggers a release of the musky, lascivious fragrance that can paradoxically be equated with the unseasoned chastity of a lawn after lightning and the sudoric stickiness of afternoon sex, simultaneously.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you pink roses,” he says, his voice more monotonous than apologetic. I accept the plastic-wrapped lilies graciously, imagining in their place stems of my classic, conventional pick: smooth baby fingers, wrapped by layers upon folded layers of blushing satin. I lift the bouquet to my face, fully conscious of the disarming, subjugating effect of the bright color against the faded neutrality of a human girl. While the pink roses could subtly intensify the rouged tones of my cheeks and lips, my tiger lilies only defraud me of any limelight, drenching me in a drabness so lonely and depressing I am tempted to pitch both him and his flowers out the window.

It is remarkable how even insignificant things become monumentous when they fail to work out. If something so trivial cannot go according to plan, what hope is there for what actually matters to you? You have long since surrendered your fate to an external power, but every obstacle in your path, every single trial and tribulation, translates in your mind to a divine abuse of privilege. Dissatisfaction with “the little things in life” strips us from our grip on what is certain, and throws everything out of proportion. But understandably so!

Just imagine. Your eyelids are resisting yet your willpower keeps persisting. Nighttime blurs your vision but heightens other sensations. Tonight precedes the new moon—the final night of rippling dark before the waxing crescent scars the blackness above, and with telescope in hand, you are prepared to revel in the concealed wonders that nature offers you while the less-elite are tucked in bed. But you, city girl in your city world, are in for some disappointment. Did you really think your world of packaged produce and earthquake-proof high rises was insurance enough to provide you with the “best of both worlds?” It’s pollution, love. You have just been cheated out of glimpsing a single diamond in the sky. Fold up that telescope, dust your disappointment under the carpet, and thank you, come again.

But it is only then that you learn to appreciate the intermittently blinking lights on passing airplanes overhead. You find comfort in the tranquility and silence, and feel refreshed by the absence of predictability in the draft that blankets your unacquainted skin. Incomparably wonderful, yet to a comparable extent.

With this in mind, I wave good-bye, rap the door in place, and separate a single lily from the cut-glass vase. The petals open up to greet me in a way that a rose will never quite accomplish. And the way it remains animated, no, electrifying, in spite of the myriad of dotted imperfections along its body, is truly commendable. In fact, by exuding such a strong character, the tiger lily is able to counteract its own flaws and transform them into distinguishing characteristics of something simple and beautiful. It is only then that I see just how intimately my own personal identity is wrapped within a flower that I never before gave a second glance.

Orange. Safety cones that designate the right pathway to walk to school. Security,  protection. The glowing lights inside the street lamps that power my city at night. Luminescence. Direction. The center stripe of candy corn, the signature treat of the holiday of my birth month—harvest and revelry.  A stretch of sand reflecting the ardent amber of sunrise. Revival. Recovery. And each individual poppy seed that peppers the orange vividness—delicate, yet purposeful—emanates an unconventional grace. How can my tiger lily enclose everything I value inside its tiny petals?

And if I fail to immediately recognize the unique value of my tiger lily, only I myself would stand to lose anything. The lovely flower will doubtlessly parch and perish within days, and its ephemeral charm will vanish from my living room forever. For now? I can try to hold on to it, seize each minute detail and emblazon it both in my memory and on photo paper. But as long as I believe the tiger lily represents some fragment of my identity, I can let it go just as I let time pass me by and pray that by the end of it all I will have some solid memories to share.

5 comments May 27, 2009