The Brief Glory of the Peony

"Of all the seasons, spring is the most unfaithful. It arrives when it wants, leaves without warning, and demands you love it fully while it’s here."— Rudyard Kipling

It happened on a Tuesday, I think. One of those spring days that is neither dramatic nor dull, just perfectly poised in its own quiet glory. The kind of day that does not ask for attention but rewards it. A soft breeze moved through the house, brushing against the vase I had placed in the centre of the kitchen table. In it, the peonies I had chosen for Sam’s birthday. They were unapologetically alive. Blush pinks. Daring whites with the faintest suggestion of lemon. Loud, near-scandalous magentas. Their petals opened like they were telling secrets. And the scent; my god, the scent—filled the room with something thick and intoxicating. Headiness to some, misery to others. But to me, it is a declaration. The season has arrived. And with it, a reminder that we are here. That it is good, truly good—to be alive.

There is a moment in late spring when the world seems to shimmer. Everything is textured. The greens are not just green. They are lime and moss and viridian and forest and chartreuse. Each one pressing itself into the scenery like brushstrokes in a living painting. The light is warmer, somehow looser. The birds are less cautious with their songs. It is not yet the languor of summer, but the restless beauty of something becoming. And in the middle of this, the peony stands as a sort of seasonal exclamation mark. Not a soft bloom. A loud one. A bloom that insists you stop. You breathe. You bloody well notice.

Peonies are my favourite flower. Always have been. They do not arrive quietly. They burst. And they do not linger. Three, maybe four days of peak brilliance, if you are lucky. And then, slowly, they let go. One petal. Then another. Until all that remains is the echo of what was. Some see that as sad. I see it as sacred. Because anything that perfect should never outstay its welcome. That’s the trick, isn’t it? To arrive, to dazzle, and to go before you fade.

They bloom every year around Sam’s birthday. And I’m grateful for that. It is like the world sending me a reminder. Not in the language of clocks or calendars. But in scent and colour and light. Telling me to stop being in a rush. Telling me that this is it. This moment. This table. This woman. This flower. There is no better day than this one. Not yesterday. Not the mythical tomorrow we keep chasing like fools. Sam teaches me to see the world in colours every day. I was born into grey. Dragged through a childhood of cold, silent melancholy. Everything felt dulled at the edges, like the light had been turned down at the mains. Sam was the opposite. She sees bursts of colour in everything. She sees the spectrum in shadows. Even in intimacy, she talks about colours exploding behind her eyes. Joy, for her, is not just a feeling. It is a hue. I will admit, I had to dig out the dictionary just to keep up. Who knew there were that many shades of green. Verdigris. Pistachio. Celadon. She’ll rattle them off like someone listing old friends. It’s not just endearing. It’s how she experiences the world. And because of her, I’ve started seeing it too.

Eckhart Tolle once wrote, “Realise deeply that the present moment is all you ever have.” It sounds simple. But we are masters of avoidance. We rush through days like they are tasks. We treat our lives like they are jobs with KPIs. We forget to look up. We forget to listen. We forget to breathe in the scent of a flower that only lasts a handful of days. But the peony doesn’t forget. It blooms when the sun begins to warm the bones. When the trees are lush but not heavy. When the mornings feel new again. It does not wait for permission. It arrives. And it owns the room.

These are the days I ache for. Not in some twee, Instagram way. I mean really ache. The warmth on your skin. The air so clear it feels drinkable. The sky enormous. The birds throwing symphonies into the open. And yet, even in this, we do not stop. We run our lives on steroids. We cram. We plan. We scroll. We perform. We do not notice that spring has quietly rolled into summer, that the world has bloomed and we didn’t even thank it.

But I did thank it. At least this year. I sat next to Sam, tea in hand, and I watched those peonies. I watched the light on her face. I watched the petals begin their soft fall. I watched the moment turn to memory right in front of me. And I felt no sadness. Only gratitude. That I was here to see it. That I was here to feel it. That I had not missed it.

And that is what peonies teach us. That beauty is not what lasts. Beauty is what interrupts. It is what says stop. Look. Smell. Be. You are not too busy for this. You are not too important. You are not too broken or tired or late. You are alive. The world is blooming. And you are here.

So I bought the bouquet. I placed it on the table. And I let it remind me that I am not just passing through this life. I am allowed to feel it. I am allowed to ache for it. I am allowed to sit in the sun and do absolutely nothing except be.

And that, I think, is enough.