Mario Quintana wrote , "Don't waste your time chasing butterflies. Mend your garden, and the butterflies will come."

Watching this video , I was reminded of how fragile interest can be. The bee was on the flower for a moment and in the other , it flew away. The camera pulled back, and suddenly it was obvious—the flower had never been standing alone. It was surrounded by an entire garden, woven into something far more beautiful than one visitor's choice.

Maybe I tend to complicate things but if I were to personify this flower, it could think like we do, asking itself all the familiar questions. *Was I not bright enough? Not fragrant enough? Why did the bee leave me?* But the attention was never a measure of the flower's worth. Bees wander because wandering is what bees do. They chase seasons, scents, and instinct. Their leaving is not a verdict but simply their nature.

Wendelin Van Draanen writes, *"A painting is more than the sum of its parts. A cow by itself is only a cow. A meadow is only grass and flowers. Sunlight through the trees is only a beam of light. But together, they become something greater than any single piece could ever be. They become magic."*

Maybe the flower doesn't need to spend its life trying to prove that it is the most important thing in the garden. After all, what would a painting be if every part demanded to be the sun? The clouds soften the light. The grass gives the cows somewhere to graze. The trees make room for birds to rest. Even the quietest wildflower completes the landscape in ways it cannot see. Wanting to be the center of everything can make us forget that beauty is rarely found in one extraordinary thing. It lives in ordinary things belonging together.

The flower's mistake would be believing that its beauty depended on being chosen. Long before the bee arrived, it was already part of a beautiful garden. Long after the bee disappeared into the sky, it remained part of the same beautiful garden.

Maybe that's true for us too. We spend so much time trying to hold on to people, opportunities, or moments that were never ours to control, while neglecting the one thing that has always been within our reach: the garden we are growing. So I guess , water your own roots, keep blooming and dancing with the wind.

Especially the quiet ones the world prefers to forget.

The shy, misunderstood, the ordinary in the crowd,

I make them the main character and say their name aloud.

For beneath their silence lives a bright and hidden light,

A gleam within their weary eyes that still dreams through the night.

They're wandering through inner worlds that few will ever see,

Building kingdoms in their minds where they are wild and free.

Perhaps this world has not been kind, perhaps it's looked away,

Ignoring every careful word they struggled hard to say.

The dismissals came too often, disappointment struck too deep,

So now they guard their tender hearts and hide what they must keep.

Yet I catch them by the window, watching clouds drift by,

Still carrying secret wishes to a patient sky.

The hero of the story is often bruised before the fight,

The fiercest roar is born from those who vanished from the light.

I know you're rarely chosen first when people scan a room,

I know you've watched attention pass and leave you in the gloom.

You're not the loudest voice they hear, nor the fairest face they see,

Yet alone at night you dream of who you someday wish to be.

And how do I explain that crowds are dazzled by the gold,

Chasing every shining thing, no matter what they hold?

But all that glitters is not gold, all that sparkles is not true,

Some of the rarest gems are hidden far from view.

I know you keep your gaze cast down to soften every sting,

"If I don't look toward them first, their silence cannot cling."

Oh, my poor child, lift your head and let your spirit roam,

You were never meant to shrink yourself to make the world your home.

The earth is green and generous, the sky is vast and blue,

The wind will dance between your hair as if it came for you.

The birds will sing at morning's break, a sweet and cheerful song,

Reminding you that you belonged here all along.

And dogs will follow at your heels with uncomplicated grace,

Because they see the warmth and light upon your gentle face.

They recognize the gleam inside, the gold beneath the scars,

The same quiet kind of radiance that lives within the stars.

And so do I—that is the reason stories call to me,

I write the souls the world ignores exactly as I see.

I hope one day they stumble here and read these lines anew,

And glimpse themselves through kinder eyes than they are used to.

Or perhaps through the eyes of the One who made them from the start,

May you find a love that's true,

May he be like the leads from dramas you adore,

May your heart soar like a dove in flight anew,

May he proudly tell the world he's yours and more.

You deserve it all, it's true,

The princess treatment and the fairy tale,

A first date worthy of a dream come through,

The kind of romance found in *You've Got Mail*.

Before that day, I hope you embrace your quirks,

The vibrant beauty of your body and your soul,

For you, the morning bird still sings and works,

How beautiful is the Indian culture for making jhumkas , one of the many symbols of love?

Indian culture has this quiet way of turning the smallest objects into something almost sacred. A pair of jhumkas is never just a pair of earrings. They carry the weight of hands that shaped them, of bazaars that hum with bargaining voices, of mothers who once kept their own wrapped in soft cloth at the back of steel cupboards. They are round and gentle, but they hold stories inside them like old brass vessels hold water.

A girl does not simply buy jhumkas. She studies them. She lifts her hair with one hand and tilts her face toward the mirror as though asking it a secret. She tries on one pair, then another. Gold that feels too bold. Silver that feels too shy. Tiny pearls that make her smile without meaning to. It is never only about matching an outfit. It is about recognizing herself in the reflection. About choosing who she wants to be that day. Soft. Radiant. Playful. Unapologetic.

And sometimes there is a boy who pretends he does not understand why she has been circling the same display for the last ten minutes. He watches the way her eyes rest a second longer on one pair. He notices how her fingers brush the little ghungroo beads as if testing their music. He says nothing. Later, when she is distracted by something else, he asks the shopkeeper for that exact pair. Not because he thinks jewelry proves love, but because he has learned that attention does. That remembering does.

In our culture, love is rarely grand in the ways films teach it to be. It hides in errands and markets and crowded festival evenings. It sits in the act of standing beside someone while they debate between oxidized silver and antique gold. It shows itself in a hand reaching for a wallet without making a spectacle of generosity. It glows in the quiet pride of seeing her wear what he chose and knowing he understood her correctly.

Jhumkas carry that kind of tenderness. They have witnessed first crushes and wedding mornings, college farewells and temple visits. They have brushed against jasmine flowers tucked into braids. They have rested against cheeks warmed by laughter. When they sway, they make a sound so faint you have to be close to hear it. Maybe that is why they feel intimate. They reward closeness.

I think that is why they feel like symbols of love. Not because they are expensive or ornate, but because they are chosen with care. Because someone stood in front of a mirror and asked herself who she is. Because someone else paid attention to the answer.

So I hope for all my girls that one day they stand under those bright shop lights with someone who is not embarrassed to be there. Someone who will hold up pairs against their ears and argue playfully about which one shines more. Someone who understands that this is not about metal and pearls. It is about being seen in the smallest of desires. It is about sharing the sweetness of choosing.

Love ,