Wilted Flowers
A random thought on dried flowers, patience, and nature as the guiding light
I don’t have much to share in this entry. It’s been quiet since we last spoke, partly because I made a nearly impulsive decision to take a break from work as mental and emotional exhaustion settled in. These days, most of my stories are tied to the city I once resented. It’s now filled with the names and faces of people I’ve spent much of my time with, while the aroma of fresh coffee and salted pretzels has become a comforting part of my routine, even when it contrasts with the scent of spiced tea and a hint of vanilla that lingers with me.
I woke up today with no intentions of writing, to be completely honest – I’m still not entirely sure why I’m typing. I just finished a simple breakfast (nothing fancy, just a bowl of porridge spiced with clove and vanilla) while scrolling aimlessly on TikTok, watching my favorite creators gush over the same suede bag, calling it the ‘must-have for the fall.’ I actually own the bag, got it back in mid-August, and in truth – it is beautiful, though I’m not entirely convinced it’s the essential, like they say.
With my closet now filled with corduroy, wool, and cashmere – replacing the linen and cotton that marked most of my summer days – there’s a slight ache that feels almost like nostalgia. I can’t quite place it. Autumn, as we all know, is my preferred season. I yearn for the fall foliage, the scent of pine cones, and the crisp air; but this autumn feels a bit different. Like there’s something I’ve been trying to shed just before the season starts, yet I find myself teetering on the edge of collapse.
I feel somewhat withdrawn these days, less inclined to join in on morning chats with friends or exchange pleasantries with familiar faces. Most mornings, I sit for a minute or two, reflecting on how the once-lush greenery in my room has faded into sepia tones. Since the end of summer, my room – which had been filled with birthday flowers, thriving plants, and endless packets of seeds for future growth – has gradually transformed into a collection of dried flowers and fallen leaves.
Arranged in vases, glass bowls, and a small jar, they now punctuate the dark tones of my all-black bedroom—comforter, throw pillows, and floor rugs—leaving the cherrywood floors as the room’s only remaining touch of warmth. Some mornings, I drop a few drops of maple oil into a small dish with a few petals from the dried flowers, infusing the space with a gentle sweetness, but more often than not, it’s the ritual that holds more meaning than the fragrance itself.
I’ve always had a quiet patience for wilting flowers—an unspoken empathy that allows me to connect with them, so the fact that I’ve kept them around isn’t necessarily surprising. In the past, I’ve used them in various ways: preserving them in a memory book, using them as bookmarks, and, as I mentioned before, for their scent.
To me, drying flowers isn’t just a way to hold onto fleeting beauty; it feels like a metaphor for keeping memories, ideas, or relationships. It’s about deciding, with intention, when to hold on and when to let go. What might seem lifeless to one person can hold a unique, preserved beauty to another, but even with that in mind, not every flower can be saved; it’s a matter of timing and patience—something I constantly grapple with.
“I realized that my attempts to outpace nature had only reinforced one simple truth: nature always prevails.”
During the week of my birthday, for example, I received three bouquets, yet only one managed to endure. The first began wilting within a week, and although I knew I should wait, my impatience got the better of me. I gently plucked the still-vibrant petals, hoping to extend their beauty just a little longer. But they had already begun to fade, and deep down, I knew they wouldn’t survive the process. Still, I couldn’t resist trying to preserve them, convinced that a delicate touch might somehow make a difference.
Naturally, that wasn’t the case. Within days, the petals darkened to a deep, sorrowful burgundy as mold crept along the stems, turning what could have been a keepsake into something I had to let go of. I was disappointed, yet even in that disappointment, I repeated the same mistake. The second bouquet met a similar fate, succumbing to my impatience. Watching this slow, inevitable decline left me feeling disheartened, as I realized that my attempts to outpace nature had only reinforced one simple truth: nature always prevails. It echoed my own struggles, showing me how many aspects of my life seemed to follow the same stubborn, cyclical pattern.
Patience, a virtue I’ve always struggled with, felt especially out of reach during these last weeks of August. I found myself feeling sullen and disheartened, as if everything I focused on was stuck in place, leaving me powerless to do anything but watch. There were moments when I felt overwhelmed, wanting to cry but unable to. Other times, I felt underwhelmed, wanting to scream but couldn’t find the words. In those moments, I would shut down, replaying the same frustrating thoughts over and over. It didn’t help—it never does—but I convinced myself it did most days. And eventually, things began to improve. Not because I had it all figured out, but because once I accepted that I had to keep moving, regardless of the outcome.
“…Nature has always shown us what it means to accept.”
While I often speak of the importance of letting life unfold, it’s hard to fully trust the process—whether things are falling apart or finally coming together. And it’s strange, because I wonder if that’s how a wilted flower feels. As the petals droop, the stems soften, and the water grows stagnant—I wonder if flowers believe the best thing they can do is let go. Do they know that holding on, trying to bloom past their time, only leads to mold and decay? I wonder if their final act of defiance is to resist or surrender, to fight the inevitable or simply embrace it.
I’d like to think it’s the latter, not just because it mirrors my own actions (or inactions)—but because there’s a quiet wisdom in letting go. Plants may not have the capacity for thought, but in a way, nature has always shown us what it means to accept. Seasons change without resistance, leaves fall when it’s time, and flowers wither when their purpose is fulfilled. Nature moves with a grace we often lack, embracing the cycles of life and death, of growth and decay, without questioning or resisting what must be.
Our human nature, on the other hand, often pushes back. We cling to things well past their time, fighting against inevitable changes, struggling to hold onto moments that are meant to pass. We resist the stillness, the endings, the discomfort of not being in control, as if we could somehow escape the very rhythms of life that nature has accepted for millennia. But perhaps if we learned to coexist with these natural rhythms, instead of fighting them, we might find a deeper sense of peace. Maybe, like the flowers, we could learn that surrender isn’t defeat, but part of a larger cycle—a quiet understanding that in letting go, we make space for something new to bloom.
Anyway, I’m not sure if this week’s entry feels sullen or something else entirely—but there are a few chores I need to take care of before my day officially begins. By the time of the next entry, we’ll officially be in autumn, and I’ll have entered my new “I’m going to learn how to bake this autumn” era. Please send me recipes, but easy ones—I tend to burn… everything.
See You In 2 Weeks.
Best,
S
