Botanic Indoctrination

In fields, grand, solitary, wild-born tulip fields, I imagine the flowers gossip with one another. They are in such close quarters, how can they not whisper a little tidbit about “oh, that tourist had just about the ugliest wide-brim hat I’ve ever seen, and I’ve grown by hydrangeas!” They have intensely pursed lips and their leaves fold and intertwine before their chests. 

Because there are countless amounts of them in Holland, I also imagine they sing at night. That many with nothing to do but wait to be gawked at, there must be a time where one begins to whistle along with the wind, roots wriggling about beneath the earth, causing those nearby to take notice and reluctantly join in, and soon it has become a synchronized wall of sound. I’ll bet tourists have attempted to pluck them before. Yank them out so that they can enjoy their soft, sweet petals for themselves, and that wall of sound loses its emphasis and to the trained ear, becomes mournful. 

If I were to stumble upon them, I’d imagine that the flowers would attempt to indoctrinate me. Not because I believe myself to be special or anything of the sort, but I think they’d take note of my lonesome nature. Or maybe they’d see my unintentional sour look, my arms crossed in front of me in an unconscious self-consciousness manner, and believe me to be one of them. They’d call me in with their song, and show me how to dig beneath the surface of the earth, my toes becoming the roots spurting off from my feet, my legs becoming the stem standing mighty tall. 

The sweat that would accumulate in my long days of standing would be my own personal dew that the morning spit upon my head. At first, I would loathe the almost complete stillness, my inability to move of my own accord as opposed to following the patterns of the wind. But I believe I would come to love the excuse it gives me to never move, to never have to move.

One fateful evening, as we all break into cheery song, the tulip rooted beside me would finally notice my lengthy, beauteous stem. It would finally notice my grand, folded leaves. It would finally notice the boisterous song emerging from my lips, a song that overtakes the chorus of tulips. It would grow mighty jealous, resentful even. At every opportunity, it would think of ways to be rid of me. Ways to clip my stem, rip off my leaves, seal my lips so that my voice may not emerge. Though it would plot and scheme, praying for my downfall, thanks to its inability to make sudden movements, it would never quite be able to reach me. Then again, it wouldn’t have to. 

I imagine the day I’d get picked to be quite uneventful at first. It would begin just like any other, with me gently shaking the dew from my body. Maybe we would sing one (unbeknownst) last sweet melody. And suddenly I am uprooted, my feet rising from the earth. My toe nails would be caked in dust, dirt far beneath the tips of them. For just a moment's time, I would forget what it means to be human, and I am still, unable to twist myself free of this grasp. And like a wave that washes me clean of the dirt that covers me, I would remember my life before the tulips, and I would wriggle and writhe until I was standing once more. I would limp away like a newborn fawn, regaining my ability to run free, and I’d take off into the fields.