To see clearly requires an open heart.
Not in the sense that we lack filters, only to the extent that possibilities are broad and expansive, provided we keep ourselves broad and expansive.
We take the lesson from spring. Never once does a daffodil consider winter will never end, and only partly because patience is an quality one might not ascribe to plants. Not in the way we consider it to exist.
Age is irrelevant, time is meaningless. The only reasonable fealty is to shift. Consistently on the edge of growth, stumbling into reason, tripping headlong into experience. Seeking out that which will change us is futile, because it all changes us. We might not take notice of how or even when, but there are moments incremental which have just as much sway as the grand. Perhaps more so because they allow us the security of coming to things in our own time.
Blossoms don’t ask permission to unfurl, they do so when conditions are ideal. That doesn’t necessarily mean enough sun, enough rain, enough nutrients in the soil, it just means they do the best they can with what they’ve got.
And the bees love them, regardless.