Wildflower Child – Nature Always Wins 

I love wildflowers. Especially the untamed kind that spring up unexpectedly—on a dusty roadside, in an empty field, or tucked beneath a tree.

I love the ones in my garden, too, even though they seldom stay long.

My wildflower mother taught me early on: never pick a flower. “They’re little beings, just like us,” she would say. “They belong to the earth, not to vases.” So I learned to observe instead of owning. I crouch down and admire the shape of a petal, the curl of a tendril, the quiet way a flower opens itself to the sun.

Gardening

How I wish I had my mother’s green fingers. My routine includes watering, composting. I talk kindly to the soil. Everything by the book. Nothing from my gut, like my mother.  Yet still, my plants wilt, wither, or disappear entirely. The culprits? Snails and caterpillars, mostly.

Always the slow eaters. But I cannot bring myself to harm them. They, too, are God’s creatures.

So instead, I gently toss them over the garden wall.

They usually return. Occasionally, I find one nibbling away in my salad leaves. A small reminder: in the end, nature always wins.

And perhaps that’s the point.

Nature

If you pause—truly pause—and observe, you’ll see how nature works. The rush. It doesn’t strive. Nature simply is. Efficient. Graceful. Wildly, unapologetically beautiful.

During COVID, when fear swallowed the days and anxiety came in crashing waves, I stayed home like many others. The world felt strange and unsafe. But slowly, I began to venture out again. One cautious step at a time. And with each walk, each outing, each breath of fresh air, my anxiety softened.

I found healing in the outside world. Found in flowers. Trees. In the dance of dandelions and the rustle of reeds. Being out there, camera in hand, changed me. Instead, I began photographing anything that bloomed—every leaf, all petals. I wasn’t chasing perfection. Just seeking stillness.

The best medicine, for me, is always beauty. Especially the kind that grows from the dirt.

If I could, I’d live in the bush. I’d become a wildlife photographer, chasing light and leopard tracks. I’d camp out for days, waiting for a white lion or a bee on a blossom. But alas, I have responsibilities. A family. Fur babies.

A career selling unforgettable holidays to the wild places I love most in Africa.

No Ordinary Day

Each day, I help others explore the beauty I hold dear. I send them to the bush I dream of. It’s a gift to connect people with landscapes that change them, even if I can’t always go myself.

Still, I sneak away when I can. Recently, on a countryside trip, I stumbled upon some of the most extraordinary flowers. Some looked like they’d landed from another planet. Others were delicate as lace. Each one felt like a whisper from God: It’s going to be okay.

That’s the thing about flowers. They bloom even after storms. Even after frost. Even in unlikely places. They’re not loud. They don’t demand attention. But they show up, again and again.

Quietly resilient. Fiercely gentle.

And so, this little ode is for them. For every daisy in a crack, for every rose in a ruin. For every blooming reminder that we’re still here. That beauty persists.

Thank you, God, for creating flowers. Elegant, fragile, defiant. Just like us.