I was born a lotus; unknowingly, but truly. I’m simply a flower, resting on the surface of a vast pool that is brimming with life. I am not sinking, but I am not swimming. I have spent all my days and all my nights immobile, for I am bound to my roots and fastened by my leaves. Most of the other lily pads and other pond buds don’t mind this fettered state, but I am not like them. I feel trapped by the anchoring sediment at the pool’s bottom. I want to leave my place.

For most of my existence, I’ve dealt with waves weathering my skin and tossing me around. I’ve also coped with gnats gnawing on my petals and poisonous frogs seeking shelter in the shade I provide. Of course, I haven’t protested too much, but how can I bloom to my full potential, when I am constantly drowned by ripples the size of tsunamis, and rented out by unwanted guests even without the presence of a vacancy sign? I often ponder how much longer I can withstand these annoyances.

The beautiful thing about lotuses, thought, is their resilience. At day’s break, the lotus emerges from the depths, spreads itself open, and absorbs the beauty of a new day. When night falls and darkness looms, the lotus reverses its rise and descends beneath the surface, finding sanctuary within the pool’s protective aqueous membrane. It takes in light, and ignores dark.

With every setback, I am set forward. With every tidal wave that knocks me over or intruder that invades my home, with every ounce of pain and suffering, I am not defeated, but resurrected. Not in a Biblical or paranormal way, but in a pretty cool way, if I do say so myself.