A tale from the magical garden. the story of the forget me not

Most people have heard of the little flower that goes by the Latin name of the flower noli me oblivisci, or the “forget me not”. The tiny pale blue button flower petals and the little yellow bud face shine all through the spring. However, very few people know the real story behind the flower.

It all began one really wet autumn many years ago, when the not so magical garden looked damp and a bit grumpy. At the bottom of the garden, underneath the green rickety shed, there lived a tiny weed, with a lot of other different weeds. But this weed was different. He wanted to be a flower.

All through the almost summer; he had poked his head up from between the other weeds, to stare with wonder at the growing flowers that sang their gentle songs. And he sighed deeply, while he watched the heavy plum and yellow sun bumble bees bounce, as they floated on their gossamer wings; gathering the yellow nectar dust that was turned into their children’s favourite tipple sweet nectar wine. And he sighed with wonder as he watched the little fittle-borts as they busily walked in hustling bustling zigzagging motions through their miniature cities.
‘Oh…’ he began, ‘Oh, if only... he said over and over again. And as the sun turned golden and then orange and then red, he sighed over and over again as he said ‘If only, if only if only.’ As he slowly wormed and wriggled his way back down into the ground at night.

‘What do you mean if only?’ asked an older weed that he passed along the way. ‘If only what?’
‘well...’ began the little weed, unsure as where to begin. ‘I was wondering what it would be like to be a flower; I have been watching the garden flowers all day long… ‘He said smiling; but then looked away as he could see the older weed looking a little cross. ‘And’ he paused trying to find the right words. ‘They look happy…kind of… in fact they actually seem…sort of happy…’ he looked a little nervously at the older weed, who was starting to look a little more angry with every word he spoke. ‘In fact…’ he started to say nervously. ‘It didn’t look half bad…’ he looked away nervously. As he concluded ‘it…looked…like…fun.’
‘FUN?’ shouted the older weed ‘FUN?’ the older weed shudder violently making the little shrub quake with fear. ‘Do you KNOW what HE would do if HE caught YOU up there DO YOU? DO YOU?’
‘He?’ Asked the little shrub ‘He he?’
‘THE GARDENER! THAT’S WHO!’ The older weed splattered and spluttered. ‘Up there, where the garden grows, they all call ‘im Gentle…ha, there’s nothing gentle about ‘im. Do you know what ‘ee would do to you, if he caught you out there is his garden? DO you want to know what HE did to me? To me and mine?’
The little shrub scuttled backwards nervously, as the older weed lifted up two of his leaves; revealing a huge weeping gash in his side.
‘Do you see that? That was where my little bud was growing, she was so pretty, so beautiful, and it was almost time to let her go. BUT then HE came… and do you know what he did? HE ripped her from me, AND THREW HER ON THE BONFIRE! That’s what he’ll do to you too! Gentle gardener…Pah! There’s nothing gentle about him! Mark my words little bud… you stay away from the garden… or he’ll throw you on the heap too! Now take my advice little shrub, you’re a weed, you’re going to stay a weed. So stop your dreaming, and start working at making the shed for us.’
And with that, the older weed slowly slithered and scratched away from the bud, back into the darkness under the shed.
But still the little bud wondered what it would be like to live with the flowers and the bees, where the sun shone all the time. And every evening, just before the sun slowly settled behind the old flint rock wall by the red garden gate, the little shrub would stare out as the birds, the bees and the little fitllbort city streets would slowly go to sleep, and he would say, ‘If only…if only…if only..’

Unfortunately, word got back to Queen Thistle that there was a little bud that was unhappy with his lot, so late one evening, when she was feeling particularly pointed, she decided to pay a visit to the shed to find out for herself, if these rumours she was hearing were in fact true.
She found the little bud sticking his little head out and looking at the garden.
‘It has come to my attention…’ she began, ‘that for some reason, I cannot understand, that you don’t like living here?’ she paused and just as the little bud was about to speak she interrupted, to say with as much compassion as she could muster (which was not very much at all.)’Now tell me, what exactly IS the problem?’
There was another pause as the little bud thought quite hard.
‘Its like this-‘
‘-your majesty!’
‘Sorry, your majesty; it’s like this you’re majesty, I want to be a flower. I want to go into the garden and sing a song to the gardener.
‘WHAT?’ screamed Queen Thistle. Spikes flew across the bottom of the shed spitting into the rotting wood. Her face was white with rage. ‘you want to sing a song…to HIM? Why don’t you want to sing a song to ME! Why don’t you want to destroy the Garden! You’re a Weed! You hear me! a WEED! Or are you…something else?
The little bud quaked an slid into the darkness as Queen Thistle lifted herself up and shook violently at him. Beware! She hissed almost silently. ‘for you haven’t seen the last of me!’ and with that the queen slid silently away back into the darkness of the outer hedge, and the steadily growing night. With eyes full of tears, the little bud looked up at the night sky. To see a hatchery of stars glimmer and glisten on a velvet blanket. And cried sadly.

The next day, as the bud was getting his daily nutrients, by the shed door a gang of adolescent weeds came along.
‘We’ve heard about you.’ Said one.
‘You’re the weed that wants to be a flower.’ Hissed another.
‘The Queen told us all, abut you! You silly weed!’ said the third laughing cruelly. And then they all began to make fun of him, pulling at his leaves tugging at his little roots. ‘
He wants to be a flower! He wants to be a flower!’ they all mocked as more weeds joined in and came over. More and more weeds joined in.
‘What shall we do to him?’
‘let’s strangle him!’ said one.
‘Let’s starve him.’ Said another.
‘let’s pull him to pieces!’ said a third and they all joined in and began to try to tear him to pieces.
‘Stop!’ came a loud stern voice. That seemed to come from everywhere.
The weeds all pulled back, as Queen Thistle came up out of the ground.
‘No!’ ordered the queen. ‘leave him alone.’
The weeds all pulled away, as the queen stood over the little bud. ‘You want to be a flower eh?’ she said coldly. Well, let’s see how well you do on your own. Cast him out of the shed!’ she bellowed her body shaking with rage. And with that all the weeds called out with one voice. ‘Cast him out! Cast him out! Cast him out!’ and with that they lifted the little bud, and threw him into the garden. ‘And stay out!’ they all shouted, and with that they turned away.

For months the little bud wandered, not knowing where to go, If he got too close to a flower, there would be a scream. If he got too close to a weed there would be a hiss. Never in all of his life, had he felt so terribly alone. Finally, at the end of winter, he found for himself a little place, where there were no flowers or weeds. It was a quiet place by a little stream close to the flint wall. And there, he made for himself a home, where he sang to the gardener, not really caring if anyone could hear him or not. It was there that he stayed: singing his little song, to no-one in-particular. Where he grew… and grew… and grew.

One late spring day, the gardener was looking out of his window of his red roofed cottage and saw by the flint wall something that caught his eye. He came downstairs and walked up the narrow garden path. Then he knelt down.
‘My your different aren’t you.’ He said quietly. ‘I have never seen one quite like you before.’
The little bud looked up and quaked nervously, as a pair of huge hands came down and pulled him out of the earth. The little bud closed his eyes as he could hear the screaming of other weeds in the large smoking bin, that was almost full.
But he didn’t go there.
‘There you go…’ Said the gardener smiling gently; ‘A place all of your own.’ And with that the Gardner placed the little growing bud into a large bowl that stood by the large kitchen door. He was in a bowl… a bowl of his own. He couldn’t believe it.
‘But I don’t understand said the bud.’
‘Oh don’t you?’ asked the gardener; who then showed him a reflection. In the mirror the bud saw something he had never seen before. He saw a beautiful little flower, all blue and yellow smiling at him.
‘But who’s that?’ asked the bud.
‘Why that’s you silly.’ Said the gardener and with that she slowly walked away down towards the shed. Whistling as he went.

That’s the story, I don’t expect you to believe it, but it’s true, every word of it. so consider this: when all those around you think you are ugly and have no purpose, think of the little weed, and the flower he became… and think not about not only how wonderful you are, but how wonderful you can become with a little bit of love, and determination you too can shape the world you’re in.

fin
c.adh 2012.