Some time at the beginning of this year, I wrote about buying ourselves flowers which you can read it here. I shared how it felt for me, that buying flowers wasn’t just about decoration, but about creating beauty, softening my space, and gifting myself a gentle kind of love.
Today, that little ritual opened up a new layer of meaning.
So, it actually happened last Sunday. As usual, I went for power walk. This is something I always look forward to every Sunday. It's like a gift I give for myself. And this time, my cousin joined me. She had a day off and felt like tagging along.
As we walked, our steps eventually led us to a florist I often visit. It’s become a kind of sacred stop for me. Almost every Sunday, after my walk, I step in and pick out a small bouquet. It might seem like a simple habit, but those flowers breathe life into my living room and into my spirit.
Those flowers sit quietly on my coffee table, where I like to spend slow mornings with a warm cup in my hand, Detective Conan playing in the background, and my journal open beside me. It’s such a little sanctuary for me. The presence of fresh flowers in that space feels like a soft exhale, a delicate affirmation of life’s sweetness.
Last week, I chose bright yellow blooms of chrysanthemum. This time, I reached for something deeper, maroon. I thought I’d mix things up. I turned to my cousin and asked, "Do you want to get some too?" She gave me a nervous little smile, almost like the question made her uncomfortable. From her expression, I assumed she wasn’t into flowers and that’s perfectly okay. We’re all wired differently, after all.
