The summer humidity fades with the sun. My running is planned and structured, my mind wandering and free. A break from thoughts coming at the speed of light, a moment of tranquility brought about by the pounding of my steps on the concrete. The same scenery washes a calm over my mind. I admire the garden as I pass; it has a balance of breathtaking, vibrant colors that look similar but different. All except for a tall green stem vacant of flowers—a New England aster filled with thin, sharp leaves. Not a flower in sight on its stalk, an eyesore amongst the beautiful.

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It’s swaying in the soft summer breeze, the sturdy green stem, high above the flowers of its neighbors. It survived the harsh winds of an Iowa summer storm, but is still flowerless in early June, patiently waiting to join the rest.

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Now comparatively behind, but not forgotten. Lost, but undeterred by its lateness to bloom. New England aster is known for being a late-blooming flower, flourishing in the autumn months of August and September. It has a home in its solitude— alone but surrounded by others. It has no feelings of being behind or longing to catch up, never comparing its progress to its neighbors, finding peace with its place and pace.

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Looking around, my thoughts begin to spiral out of control—no way to slow down, too slow to catch up—overwhelmed, overworked, and underproductive. I feel like a weed among the flowers, running to slow my mind, putting the thoughts at bay. Though the tall green stem is abundant with leaves, it's vacant of flowers in a field full of blossoms. A life so simple, seemingly free of expectations. No thoughts racing through its mind, no overanalyzing or overthinking, just a plant waiting for its time. An inspiration to a busy mind, tired, stressed, and lost. Wandering, trying to find my place, my peace, my pace, my people.

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In the fall, I pass by the garden, a once beautiful space filled with flowers past their prime—except for a stem forever changed. Still secure in its place is the stem now covered in bright purple flowers. Small and plentiful on its stems, relying on each other for support. The flowers are soft to the touch, with a sweetness that reaches for my soul, longing for me to learn from them. Once unimportant, it is now surrounded by bees, a new source of pollen and nutrients. A sense of pride and a lesson to be learned from its life. Resistant to drought, judgment, and comparison, finding its place in the early fall months, no rushed feelings to find itself sooner. Unwavering by the lateness of its blooming, standing above the rest, tall and proud of what it has become. A flower joining its group, secure in a space once unfit. 

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The sharp bitterness of the autumn wind nips at my face. It is a drastic change from just a few short months ago. Traveling the same path, my mind once busy comparing is now still and content, finding comfort in the familiar. The firmness of the ground contrasts with the softness of the memories it holds.

 

Endless trees loom over the now-dying garden. A single New England aster blooms, each flower a group of hundreds coming together. No flower is more important than another, unable to thrive alone, each one equally necessary to its success. No two are exactly alike but they are living for a common goal. No judgment or drama, a sense of tranquillity in the turmoil of life. The bloom is soft, sweet, and moldable, waiting for someone to come along and admire it. Knowing the bitter winter weather is approaching, holding strong through the night. Pride in its accomplishments, and acceptance of whatever the future holds. 

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