Silly Flowers: What We Buy for the Burial of Our Truth

Eva Simons - “Silly Boy”

Eva Simons - “Silly Boy”

In the gentle hum of the market checkout line today, Eva Simons' "Silly Boy" played overhead, creating an unexpected moment of clarity amidst the mundane. The cashier's scanner beeped rhythmically as I stood waiting, grocery bags ready, when suddenly this seemingly random pop song transported me to a conversation from my youth—one of those divine whispers that arrives precisely when the soul is ready to receive it.

As the Psalmist writes, "You have searched me, Lord, and you know me," and in these ordinary moments our deepest truths often find us. There I was, simply buying vegetables and household necessities, when a forgotten story bloomed in my consciousness—a parable shared by a wise father during my high school years.

This father told me of another father who dedicated countless hours practicing baseball with his son in their pristine suburban backyard. The father took immense pride in his son's developing skills, celebrating each improved swing, each perfect catch. Yet something peculiar existed within their dynamic—the father refused to allow his son to play with children from other neighborhoods, especially those from the nearby urban communities. "They play differently there," he would explain with thinly veiled judgment.

Can you feel the tension in this story? That gentle yet persistent nudge urging you to look beyond what appears as protection but serves as limitation?

One summer day, the son visited his cousin in the city and joined an impromptu baseball game at the local park. Despite his years of backyard training, he found himself thoroughly outmatched by children who played with raw passion and instinctive skill rather than textbook technique. When he returned home defeated and confused, his father became flabbergasted. "But I trained you myself! How could those kids possibly be better?"

As I placed my items on the conveyor belt, this memory crystallized into profound truth. The ancient wisdom traditions remind us, "The truth shall set you free," but first we must recognize where we have confined ourselves. The father in this story believed he was preparing his son for excellence, but he was actually preparing him for a version of reality that existed only within their carefully constructed boundaries.

Through consistent spiritual practice and communion with higher consciousness, we access the courage to see ourselves authentically—not as we wish to be perceived, but as we truly are in this moment. Perhaps you've experienced similar moments of clarity that simultaneously illuminate and challenge your self-perception.

When I first acknowledged my own spiritual calling, I stood face-to-face with the uncomfortable realization that much of my religious identity had been cultivated in carefully controlled environments. I had been practicing faith within the equivalent of that suburban backyard—safe, predictable, and entirely insufficient for the real game of life.

The journey isn't always comfortable, but comfort has never been the purpose of a soul's incarnation. As the Gospel teaches us, "What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?" We come to this earthly experience not for safety but for transformation.

This story extends beyond baseball into every corner of our lives. How often do we create artificial environments in our relationships where we only practice emotional vulnerability with those who respond exactly as we hope? How frequently do we restrict our conversations to people who already share our perspectives? Each time we choose authenticity over performance, truth over comfortable illusion, or genuine connection over superficial harmony, we recalibrate our internal systems toward divine alignment.

I've witnessed this phenomenon in sacred circles worldwide: strangers becoming family through vulnerability and shared purpose. True spirituality isn't an escape from life but a deeper immersion into its magnificent complexity. The silly boy in Eva Simons' song who keeps making the same mistakes parallels our own repeated patterns when we refuse to step beyond our practiced routines into authentic engagement with the world as it actually exists.

As I finally reached the front of the line and paid for my groceries, I recognized that we often spend our days metaphorically buying flowers for the burial of our own truth—beautiful distractions that honor what we've allowed to die within us. Each time we make excuses for why we cannot engage with different perspectives or challenging environments, we place another bloom on that grave.

Together, we are remembering our capacity to play in any field, to connect across artificial divisions, to recognize our divine nature beyond our comfortable confines. The challenges before us—in our personal relationships, our communities, our spiritual growth—require nothing less than our complete presence and commitment to authentic evolution.

As we navigate this extraordinary era of global awakening, I invite you to ask: Where are you still practicing in the backyard while avoiding the real game? What truths are you ready to resurrect that you've been buying flowers for instead?

With profound love and reverence for your journey into authenticity,

Mitchell Royel