I walked out my door a moment ago and stepped into a snowstorm. No—not an actual snowstorm, but the white petals did fill the air. Wind and rain are hurrying the demise of the spectacular festival of pear blossoms.

I strolled over to the ancient pear tree, towering more than 40 feet above me. It is still rife with ivory blossoms, but most of them will come to nothing. No pears, no edible fruit.

It’s not only the wind that will bring spring’s promise to naught.

The tree has outgrown the graft that made it productive in its early years. When I crane my neck to look toward the sky, its beauty is still evident, its size truly awesome, but the branches are barren of the sweet fruit it once offered to those of us on the ground below.

Lovely, but lacking.

Strange. There is a section, growing near the ground, where the blossoms look completely different. Different shape. Different hues.

The trunk is misshapen and gnarled, and the branches are slender here.

But, I know from experience that these blossoms will become buds which, in turn, will produce fruit.

Edible pears near the ground.

Reaching for the sky where it may be seen and admired by all who pass by, the huge branches spread, barren of anything but beauty.

Near the ground, where no one sees and none would remark, fruit comes.

I’d like to be grounded. And useful.

Beauty—true beauty—comes from obedient and humble performance. Gnarled and scarred, we serve.

Bloom where you’re planted.

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.