“ Blooming Beyond Doubt ”

A dandelion sings the a cappella of beauty upon the break of sunlight- the warmth dripping along the honey petals of this so-called street flower. This is an ordinary day in the ordinary life of an ordinary dandelion.

As a kid, I felt like this tiny flower in a boulevard of majestic blossoms, wishing for a kind gardener to tend to this common local fancy. I watched in helplessness as oblivious children stomped on it, each thumb wounding a tight knot around my heart. This is an ordinary day in the ordinary life of a once meek girl.

One of the greatest tragedies in life is that you will always be loved more than you will ever know. It didn’t occur to me that the only colour I couldn’t see was the colour of my wings, painted on my back by so many people whom I have had an exchange with, smiled back in the streets or simply, had just brushed past without my notice. My mind felt like a cotton bead, fragile and self-sabotaging. In a bursting crowd of boisterous laughter and playful gossips, I cuddled myself in a corner with invisible smiles and unheard chats. As much as this dandelion wanted to bloom among the fancies of the orchard, its fears chained itself in its cage. My words conflicted with my thoughts, shuddered with an unspoken breeze. An 11 year old, with empty surrounding desks, felt the intimidating, yet pitiful stares of the many unrecognisable faces in her class. What was it that I was so afraid about? I was nurtured and cared for. No academics pressured me. No war had imposed me. No disease had crawled under my skin. Yet, each passing day, my spirit dropped my head low, my voices inaudible, my presence unfelt. This is my tale of overcoming low self-esteem and internal criticism.

My adolescence was marked by the search for self-worth. Every error required an amendment and in every correction, I looked for appreciation. When I lay my past into retrospection, I feel this urgent need to understand that I have grown along a long path. My introversion and timidity was extreme, so much so that I was perceived as a daunting academic corpse, although that was purely the internal critic in me trying to ravage the little life off me. I remained an enigma, and although the little seedling in me wanted to harbour the love of the world, I closed myself off, lamenting my insufficiency and self-distrust. The only thing I called myself was ‘never enough.’

Although the dandelion would have wanted to embrace the qualities of perpetuity, it would soon know of its transient existence in this garden. An unforgiving storm could uproot it, just like how this little shaft of light in me was to be obscured by a menacing shadow.

But when this dandelion thought of its last day on Earth and this light in me dwindled to its death, a window opened.

If a teacher’s simple words could have the potential to elevate the hopes of his students, I am one of the flowers he attended. The dandelion once feared the martyrdom of its beautiful yellowness but never anticipated to become the wishful flower, whom everyone would blow their hopes on. I never dreamt myself out of this hard shell of mine, but a simple appreciation of, ‘I wish the best, for you are already good enough’, melted the uncertainty and fright in me. As much as this sounds gullible and unwary, I like to hold onto the belief that every person has a canvas on their back, coated with the different colours of life. It is sad to see how we can never see the art that we are yet the world embodies the souls of people who can see this in us. I believe that even if we struggle to see the beauty that lies within us, we are all painters who can perceive the glory of others.

The fairy clock is always on our back. One day, its bright yellow bloom will radiate and the silhouette will beam with love.