Abstract
It was a sleety, blustery cold day as I made my way out of Edinburgh Waverley Station in the morning rush hour. Just as I was coming out of the station, a young woman all wrapped up in a thick scarf, held out a rose saying, ‘a rose for you ma’am, have a nice day.’ We are so wary of strangers giving us anything that I stopped for a couple of seconds but then realising she was standing in the cold just doing her job, thanked her and took the rose. It was creamy white with a light tinge of green and it came with an advert for a new hotel opening nearby. I have a weakness for flowers and the rose in my hand suddenly brightened up the day.
I carried on walking up that steep hill to New College, clutching the rose against the wet, cold wind. I didn’t have my umbrella but forgot about getting wet myself as I tried to protect the flower. A single rose, what could be more uplifting on a day like this? There is something about flowers which like music take us momentarily out of the ordinary and remind us of beauty in life. The artist and thinker John Ruskin said that ‘flowers seem intended for the solace of ordinary humanity.’ I’m not sure whether it’s the life blooming and fading within them or their silent beauty but flowers never disappoint; they always add to our lives.
Of course flowers are not about happiness alone, they speak for all human emotions especially loss and forgiveness. But I think most of all flowers speak a language of sharing, of inviting people into our lives, our moods, some intimate space, especially when words fail. Many years ago I went to Egypt as an undergraduate student to study Arabic. I was provided with a flat in a rather run down part of the city where cattle and people walked side by side on the dusty roads and peasants sold their goods in narrow alleyways. I was abroad for the first time and although excited, a little apprehensive as I could barely speak any Arabic. Local women and girls had gathered around staring with some intrigue at this lone female who had stepped out of a taxi straight into their neighbourhood. One older woman walked up to my flat and when I opened the door, she spoke the colloquial dialect with a smile and questioning eyes. I tried to tell her that I couldn’t understand her, and shut the door politely. She came back and did the same thing again and by her fourth visit I was feeling slightly harassed by her presence and persistence. But this time when I opened the door, she was accompanied by a young boy and held a small ragged bunch of flowers in her hand. She smiled placing the flowers in my hands and before I could say anything, the young boy said shyly in English, ‘She wants to welcome you and asks if you need anything. You are our guest. Welcome!’