Last week I was sick with a flu, and I lay in bed and looked out the window. I have there a pot of pink cyclamens, and I just lay back and looked at them.
Cyclamens are modest flowers. They bend their heads down to the earth, never looking up. Unlike most other flowers, their reproductive parts are hidden, and not garishly displayed. When the weather is bad and stormy, they don’t try to resist and fight, they just get battered down to the earth, but then easily spring back up once the storm is over. They are hardy little beings, and have modest needs – growing out of the crevices of rocks and weathering stormy weather. They have a gentle appearance, but when examined closely, they turn out to be strong and tough, with well made dark leaves and thick stems.
I looked at them, it was just after the rain, and the sun shown through the pink petals. They look soft and translucent, like dashes of color casually placed one above the other. There was something very beautiful about them, gentle yet strong…
The sun went down and night came, hiding them from view. My sister came and started practicing her violin. I like listening to her, her music is very inspiring and takes me onward to other worlds. I crept out of bed and sat a my desk. I felt like picking up the brush. I didn’t really think, I didn’t have the strength to think. I picked up some red paint, and boldly lay strokes onto the paper before me. Before I knew it, I had cyclamens on paper, painted from the impressions of memory.
