The zinnias are the last ones standing when August turns dry. While other flowers droop and surrender, the zinnias lift their heads and keep offering color — magenta, coral, cream, scarlet — as if to say, I am still here.
I have learned a lot from zinnias. They do not wait for perfect conditions. They bloom in the heat, in the neglected corner, in the soil no one thought was good enough.
There is a kind of holy stubbornness in that. A refusal to let circumstances determine glory. The zinnia does not ask permission to be beautiful; it simply opens.
I want to live like that. Not loud, not proud — but fully present. Fully seen. Fully given over to the purpose for which I was planted.
“The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come.”
Say · Believe · Receive · Forgive
← Back to the garden
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