The Red Flower and the Bugs

The other night, I had a dream that stayed with me—not because it was frightening or fantastical, but because it felt true. Symbolic. Like a whisper from my unconscious, asking me to pay attention.

In the dream, I was on a plane. I think we were in the air, but I wasn’t admiring the view—I was worried about deep vein thrombosis. I wanted compression stockings. Dream logic, I suppose. Even in flight, I was thinking about risk, protection, circulation, how to keep the lifeblood moving.

Then, suddenly, the scene changed. I was grounded, somewhere lush and green. Outdoors. I began gathering yellow wildflowers, soft, radiant things, and tucked among them, I found one stunning red bloom. I brought them all home and placed them in a vase of water. But I wanted the red one in the center. I wanted it to stand out.

And when I finally got it just right…
I noticed the red flower was crawling with tiny bugs. I screamed—of course I did—and took the whole vase outside. Not to throw it away. Just to rinse it clean. I wanted the red flower to shine again, unburdened by what was hidden inside.

What Does It Mean?

I’ve been thinking about that dream all day. How often do we do the same in our waking lives?
We gather beauty. We build something. We dare to place our truth, our red bloom, at the center. And just when we finally get there, the bugs come crawling out: self-doubt, criticism, old betrayals, the quiet belief that we are too much.
But here's what I love: I didn’t rip the flower from the arrangement. I didn’t throw away the bouquet. I took it outside and washed it clean.

That, to me, is grace.

Not perfection. Just the willingness to rinse and begin again.

So if you're reading this, and you’ve found yourself holding beauty that's been clouded by fear—don’t throw it away. Rinse it off. Start again.

Let your red bloom shine.