My bunch of cheerful yellow carnations (which I can’t resist buying each week while shopping for the necessities of life) owe their lives to four things.

1) Me.
2) Water (which I provide)
3) The vase to hold the water (both of which I provide.)
4) The sun.

Each morning when I rise and traipse into the kitchen to eat breakfast, I pause to smile at my exuberant pets, because they remind me how to start my day.

You see, they sit in their vase on our table directly by a window that we cover each night with great thick drapes. Only a crack -a small sliver- of light pokes through.

Of the four things my buds are dependent upon, it is clear to all each morning which they adore most highly. Their slender green necks are craned towards that crack of white between the drapes. They literally shift within the confines of their jar to be as close as flowerly possible to their source.

Indeed, they use every capacity they have to fulfill this deep-seated need to point their petals toward the light, and in so doing, they bring joy to me, the onlooker, at their simple, unsullied pursuit.

Some onlookers will pay them no heed. “They are just another bunch of flowers,” they say and stride by into the kitchen. Others laugh at the ridiculous notion that the flowers will ever reach what they need on their own.

But, in fact, these small creations can’t reach what they need on their own. It is not ‘til I, the provider, cast away the curtains of drab darkness that the light is free to stream in.

The flowers are unaware of the scoffers, and despite their mindless existence, they are much wiser than those who don’t recognize their need for light. The carnations, my carnations, simply push and strain on toward that which they know is beyond the curtain, regardless of what “everyone says.”