The Picker, the Flower, and the Dye

The Picker, the Flower, and the Dye

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

The question was asked of me by a stranger whose eyes held centuries of wisdom, “If one were to pick a flower from the terrain and place it in a vase of water mixed with indigo dye, what would happen to the flower?”

I, of little knowledge, humbled by the tone of his voice, replied gently, “The flower would absorb the dyed water and the flower would change its shade.”

The questioner, unsatisfied yet tender in his tone, asked again, “Why did the flower drink the water that would change its appearance? Why didn’t it refuse the water?”

I looked at the questioner with humility. His eyes were not testing me but awakening something within me. I answered slowly, “The flower had no choice but to drink of the grimy water, for it was the only source of life it needed to survive. But with its survival came an unwanted change.”

The questioner’s gaze did not waver. He leaned closer with a quietness that spoke louder than thunder. “Do you believe the flower wanted to change its color? Why did the picker of the flower remove it from its natural environment? Is it the flower’s fault for its change?”

I took a breath deep from my soul, for these were not simple questions they were mirrors.

“O questioner,” I began, “your thoughts challenge my mind just as it is a challenge to walk upright in the midst of a great storm. But I will attempt to answer that which you ask of me.

“As for the flower wanting to change colors, I believe it did not desire to change at all. Flowers do not yearn to be anything other than what they were created to be. I believe it did not even know it was in grimy water. Innocence has no awareness of corruption until it begins to wither from it. But if it knew if the flower had understanding I assure you, it would have tilted the vase over, spilled the dye across the floor, and either taken refuge in dry soil or released the life it held, returning to the Source that crafted it.

“As for the picker,” I continued, “I believe he was not satisfied with admiring beauty; he was obsessed with possessing it. The picker did not understand that to truly love a thing is to let it bloom where it was born. But he wanted to trap that beauty behind glass and porcelain. He wanted to manipulate it. He wished to see if the flower’s beauty could be altered re-colored, reshaped to please his own fancy.

“But the flower,” I said softly, “is not to blame. It is not guilty for the environment it was placed in. How can the innocent be judged for what they absorb in captivity? The blame lies with the picker, who saw beauty as a trophy rather than a truth.”

The questioner looked at me, smiled, and walked away without another word, leaving me with the echo of my own thoughts. His silence spoke volumes. It was not approval nor dismissal it was an invitation to go deeper still.

Later, I sat alone and wondered: Am I the flower? Have I been uprooted from the sacred soil of my Creator’s intention and placed in murky waters not of my choosing? Have I, too, changed my colors altered not because I wished to, but because I had to survive?

Or perhaps... perhaps I have been the picker. Perhaps, in my own search for beauty, understanding, or comfort, I have grasped too tightly at things never meant to be held. I have tried to keep people, moments, and memories in vases, not realizing that their brilliance only truly exists in freedom.

The world is filled with flowers dyed in waters they never asked for. Some are children born into toxic households. Some are souls raised in environments where survival means swallowing pain. Others are artists, lovers, dreamers placed in institutions, systems, and relationships that dilute their color just to make them easier to control.

And yet... some flowers, even after absorbing the dye, turn their stain into a unique expression. Some rise above the color given to them and radiate truth anyway. Their roots may have been severed, but their soul still leans toward the light.

Perhaps the lesson is this: We must be careful what we pluck, and even more careful of the water we place others in. We must learn to recognize when we are flowers in the wrong vase and find the courage to spill it over. And when we are the picker, we must resist the urge to cage what was never ours to control.

I still don’t know who the questioner was. He vanished as quietly as he appeared, like a breeze that stirs the leaves and then disappears into silence. But his question remains, blooming in my mind.

And now, I pass it to you, dear reader: Are you the flower, the water, or the hand that picks?

😪( This was a real dream I had its not fiction)