Flowers of Thy Meadow

The bump of heavy wheels, the jolt of hitting the ground, a collective exhalation of breath. The airplane touched down alarmingly sooner than expected, and each of us looked to our neighbor, exchanging a colorful amalgam of expressions, from fear to joy to masked indifference.

The airport was different than I had remembered. For some reason it seemed bigger, cleaner, with fewer people. The seat on which I sat as I waited for my connecting flight was thinly cushioned but comfortable, with faux leather upholstery and plastic armrests, the standard in all airports.

“Recent reports have shown that the prevalence of obesity in Americans is on the steady rise…” My eyes flicked up to the television screen, and for a moment I couldn’t understand what the news reporter had said. It was in English, after all, and I had spent the last nine months away from that language and those who spoke it. Pictures scrolled across the screen, shots of downtown city streets, people filing down them haphazardly, ignoring each other as etiquette deemed appropriate. Some of the newscasters’ words filtered through the images, and I nearly laughed at the unfortunate use of the words “throng” and “streets teeming with people.” They had obviously never been in any major Chinese city on Thursday afternoon during the work week, let alone Monday morning rush hour in Beijing.

I rolled my eyes and adjusted my earphones in my ears. I flicked on the music and closed my eyes. When they opened again, they alighted automatically on the flashing screen above my head. I almost understood the news report better without actually listening to the words spoken by the well put-together woman on the screen.

The story had something to do with watches. A small but elite shop sold designer watches to a wealthy clientele. The head jeweler held up a gold pocketwatch for examination, pointing out to the viewers its perfection and worth. I was not startled until the camera panned out to show the entirety of the store, the case upon case of glassed in jewelry, the attendants working the counters, urging customers to buy, buy, buy, the people milling about the store, with too much or too little interest. The first thing I noticed about the people themselves were the differences. One woman held her nose high in the air, her perfect gray hair sitting atop her head like a headdress. A young girl pressed her nose to the glass and pointed her finger at a fine bracelet, her frizzy dark hair held back in a ponytail.

Different people, different colors, different sizes and features. I had to look twice. I had forgotten this about America, about how much each of us differs from another, about how diverse a population lives in this country, and how much our difference manage to both unite and split us apart from each other.

I glanced around myself. The man sitting across from me dozed beneath his headphones. His skin was some unidentifiable shade of tan. Sitting next to him was a young Asian woman. Or maybe she was half Asian. I couldn’t tell. What made its impression on me more than the color or exact shade of their skin was the contrast, the difference in itself. I had grown so used to a certain amount of homogeneity, a comfort in dark hair and skin just a few shades darker than my own. The shock was not unpleasant or unwelcome, just unexpected.

I had always considered myself a person who placed little to no value in physical differences, a person who barely noticed them let alone put stock in how they affected someone’s personality. Noticing something small, like the color of someone’s skin was a new phenomenon, a new and, I won’t lie, uncomfortable experience that I was more than happy to do without.

As I sat in my seat in the San Francisco airport, fresh from Beijing via Tokyo, watching the faces of the couple sitting across from me, a quotation sifted through to the front of my mind: “These children are the plants of Thine orchard, the flowers of Thy meadow, the roses of Thy garden.” How appropriate it seemed, and still does.

What would a garden be without variation in color, in size, in shape, in brightness? Would the purpose of a garden be fulfilled if it contained only one shade of red or flowers only so tall?

The quotation applied directly. I had grown so used to seeing only shade of rose that witnessing the others became a delicacy, a shock, something I had lost and re-gained in coming back to the United States. The thought made me smile, and the two sitting opposite me (I suspect) gave me a funny look as I smiled at them.

I closed my eyes again after a moment, dozing off quickly before my next plane, and dreaming of a garden.

(all content Copyright National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of the United States, 2000-2003, do not use without permission)