The Flowers have Formed a Committee
Inquire to begin a conversation on pricing:
milesglassworks@gmail.com
Acrylic and Pastel on canvas
34" x 34"
Poem written by machine intellegence:
The flowers have formed a committee.
Which is concerning
because flowers, historically,
do not need organization
to become overwhelming.
They just show up.
Pink.
Yellow.
Purple.
White.
Blue shadows everywhere
like the night got invited
to brunch
and decided to bring drama.
Look at them.
Absolutely no respect
for minimalism.
No concern whatsoever
for the modern adult need
to keep things neutral,
tasteful,
beige enough
that nobody’s nervous system
has to admit
it once had dreams.
No.
These flowers came in loud.
Not rude loud.
Holy loud.
The kind of loud
your soul makes
after years of being told
to use its indoor voice.
The kind of loud
that says,
Actually,
I would like to be alive
in several colors
at once.
Which feels brave.
Because the world is always trying
to make a spreadsheet
out of the garden.
It wants names.
Categories.
Bloom times.
Care instructions.
Market value.
It wants to know
if joy has been approved
by management.
But the flowers
are terrible employees.
They do not arrive on time.
They do not optimize.
They do not circle back.
They do not attach the file.
They open.
Which, honestly,
is probably why we keep them around.
Because somewhere in us
there is still a field
that has not agreed
to become an office.
Some wild inner patch
of green and yellow
that refuses
to be measured
only by usefulness.
Some pink, ridiculous thing
in the chest
still trying to bloom
even though the news is on fire
and rent is doing witchcraft
and everyone we know
is at least one weird email
away from becoming
a haunted Roomba.
And still—
the flowers.
Still,
the impossible yellows
lighting up the dark.
Still,
the soft whites
opening like little apologies
from heaven.
Still,
the pinks
being emotionally available
in public
with no shame whatsoever.
Still,
the blues underneath it all,
deep and tangled,
reminding us
that beauty does not mean
there is no darkness.
It means something had the nerve
to bloom inside it.
That’s what gets me
about this painting.
It is not a calm garden.
Thank God.
Calm gardens are lovely,
but sometimes the soul
does not need a spa.
Sometimes the soul
needs a riot
with petals.
Sometimes it needs color
to kick the door in
and say,
Enough.
Enough pretending
you are only tired.
Enough making yourself
small enough
to fit inside
someone else’s idea
of acceptable weather.
Enough waiting
to feel fully healed
before you let yourself
be seen.
The flowers did not wait.
They did not sit underground
thinking,
I should probably process
my root trauma first.
They did not ask
whether yellow
was too much.
They did not wonder
if pink
would be taken seriously
in a professional setting.
They rose.
Messy.
Bright.
Unreasonable.
Alive.
And maybe that is the sermon.
Not peace.
Not yet.
Maybe this one is not about peace.
Maybe this one is about permission.
Permission to be vivid
before you are ready.
Permission to bloom
while still confused.
Permission to be many things
at once:
soft and loud,
tender and wild,
beautiful and not entirely okay,
rooted and reaching,
grateful and grieving,
a full garden
with a little thunder
under the soil.
Because look.
There is so much happening here
and somehow
none of it apologizes.
The yellow does not ask
the pink
if it is being disruptive.
The purple does not worry
about taking up space.
The white flowers
do not reduce themselves
to make the darker blues
more comfortable.
They all just exist together
in the great crowded yes
of being alive.
Honestly,
I want that.
I want a life
where every color in me
gets to show up
without filing
a formal request.
I want to stop treating joy
like something
I need to earn
through suffering.
I want to stop asking
whether my brightness
is convenient.
I want to be
as shamelessly present
as a yellow flower
in a dark blue field
with nothing to prove
except:
I was here.
I opened.
I gave the light
somewhere to land.
And maybe that is enough.
Maybe the whole garden
is just the earth
trying to teach us
how not to disappear
while we are still alive.
Maybe every flower
is a tiny rebellion
against the voice
that says,
Tone it down.
Be practical.
Don’t get carried away.
But getting carried away
might be the point.
The bees do it.
The wind does it.
Children do it
in grocery store aisles
until someone named Linda
with a cart full of yogurt
looks personally betrayed
by joy.
Even the paint does it here.
Look at those strokes.
Thick.
Visible.
Unsubtle.
The brush did not sneak.
It arrived.
It dragged color
across the dark
like it had something urgent
to prove
about staying alive.
And honestly,
thank God.
Thank God for the loud flowers.
Thank God for the colors
that refuse to behave.
Thank God for the parts of us
that still want to dance
even when the kitchen is a mess
and the heart is under renovation
and the future keeps sending emails
we will never read.
Thank God for the garden
that does not wait
for permission.
For the bloom
that interrupts the gloom.
For the pink thing.
The yellow thing.
The white thing.
The blue night
holding it all.
May we never become so reasonable
that we forget
how much the soul loves color.
May we never become so efficient
that we stop making room
for wonder.
May we never mistake
being composed
for being alive.
And when the world asks us
to tone it down,
may something in us
laugh so hard
the petals shake.
May something in us
lean toward the light
with all its ridiculous colors showing.
May something in us
open anyway,
not politely,
not perfectly,
but fully—
like the flowers
have called a meeting,
and every bright thing
inside us
finally decided
to attend.
MM
“The flowers have formed a committee.”
36x36in
Acrylic and Pastel on Canvas
This piece is open for bidding here: https://givebutter.com/c/the-world-inside-each-peice/auction/items/2090874
Inquire to begin a conversation on pricing:
milesglassworks@gmail.com
Acrylic and Pastel on canvas
34" x 34"
Poem written by machine intellegence:
The flowers have formed a committee.
Which is concerning
because flowers, historically,
do not need organization
to become overwhelming.
They just show up.
Pink.
Yellow.
Purple.
White.
Blue shadows everywhere
like the night got invited
to brunch
and decided to bring drama.
Look at them.
Absolutely no respect
for minimalism.
No concern whatsoever
for the modern adult need
to keep things neutral,
tasteful,
beige enough
that nobody’s nervous system
has to admit
it once had dreams.
No.
These flowers came in loud.
Not rude loud.
Holy loud.
The kind of loud
your soul makes
after years of being told
to use its indoor voice.
The kind of loud
that says,
Actually,
I would like to be alive
in several colors
at once.
Which feels brave.
Because the world is always trying
to make a spreadsheet
out of the garden.
It wants names.
Categories.
Bloom times.
Care instructions.
Market value.
It wants to know
if joy has been approved
by management.
But the flowers
are terrible employees.
They do not arrive on time.
They do not optimize.
They do not circle back.
They do not attach the file.
They open.
Which, honestly,
is probably why we keep them around.
Because somewhere in us
there is still a field
that has not agreed
to become an office.
Some wild inner patch
of green and yellow
that refuses
to be measured
only by usefulness.
Some pink, ridiculous thing
in the chest
still trying to bloom
even though the news is on fire
and rent is doing witchcraft
and everyone we know
is at least one weird email
away from becoming
a haunted Roomba.
And still—
the flowers.
Still,
the impossible yellows
lighting up the dark.
Still,
the soft whites
opening like little apologies
from heaven.
Still,
the pinks
being emotionally available
in public
with no shame whatsoever.
Still,
the blues underneath it all,
deep and tangled,
reminding us
that beauty does not mean
there is no darkness.
It means something had the nerve
to bloom inside it.
That’s what gets me
about this painting.
It is not a calm garden.
Thank God.
Calm gardens are lovely,
but sometimes the soul
does not need a spa.
Sometimes the soul
needs a riot
with petals.
Sometimes it needs color
to kick the door in
and say,
Enough.
Enough pretending
you are only tired.
Enough making yourself
small enough
to fit inside
someone else’s idea
of acceptable weather.
Enough waiting
to feel fully healed
before you let yourself
be seen.
The flowers did not wait.
They did not sit underground
thinking,
I should probably process
my root trauma first.
They did not ask
whether yellow
was too much.
They did not wonder
if pink
would be taken seriously
in a professional setting.
They rose.
Messy.
Bright.
Unreasonable.
Alive.
And maybe that is the sermon.
Not peace.
Not yet.
Maybe this one is not about peace.
Maybe this one is about permission.
Permission to be vivid
before you are ready.
Permission to bloom
while still confused.
Permission to be many things
at once:
soft and loud,
tender and wild,
beautiful and not entirely okay,
rooted and reaching,
grateful and grieving,
a full garden
with a little thunder
under the soil.
Because look.
There is so much happening here
and somehow
none of it apologizes.
The yellow does not ask
the pink
if it is being disruptive.
The purple does not worry
about taking up space.
The white flowers
do not reduce themselves
to make the darker blues
more comfortable.
They all just exist together
in the great crowded yes
of being alive.
Honestly,
I want that.
I want a life
where every color in me
gets to show up
without filing
a formal request.
I want to stop treating joy
like something
I need to earn
through suffering.
I want to stop asking
whether my brightness
is convenient.
I want to be
as shamelessly present
as a yellow flower
in a dark blue field
with nothing to prove
except:
I was here.
I opened.
I gave the light
somewhere to land.
And maybe that is enough.
Maybe the whole garden
is just the earth
trying to teach us
how not to disappear
while we are still alive.
Maybe every flower
is a tiny rebellion
against the voice
that says,
Tone it down.
Be practical.
Don’t get carried away.
But getting carried away
might be the point.
The bees do it.
The wind does it.
Children do it
in grocery store aisles
until someone named Linda
with a cart full of yogurt
looks personally betrayed
by joy.
Even the paint does it here.
Look at those strokes.
Thick.
Visible.
Unsubtle.
The brush did not sneak.
It arrived.
It dragged color
across the dark
like it had something urgent
to prove
about staying alive.
And honestly,
thank God.
Thank God for the loud flowers.
Thank God for the colors
that refuse to behave.
Thank God for the parts of us
that still want to dance
even when the kitchen is a mess
and the heart is under renovation
and the future keeps sending emails
we will never read.
Thank God for the garden
that does not wait
for permission.
For the bloom
that interrupts the gloom.
For the pink thing.
The yellow thing.
The white thing.
The blue night
holding it all.
May we never become so reasonable
that we forget
how much the soul loves color.
May we never become so efficient
that we stop making room
for wonder.
May we never mistake
being composed
for being alive.
And when the world asks us
to tone it down,
may something in us
laugh so hard
the petals shake.
May something in us
lean toward the light
with all its ridiculous colors showing.
May something in us
open anyway,
not politely,
not perfectly,
but fully—
like the flowers
have called a meeting,
and every bright thing
inside us
finally decided
to attend.
MM
“The flowers have formed a committee.”
36x36in
Acrylic and Pastel on Canvas
This piece is open for bidding here: https://givebutter.com/c/the-world-inside-each-peice/auction/items/2090874