Comments on: On Cherry Petal Snow and the Final Cat http://www.thecreativeinstinct.com/2007/04/24/on-cherry-petal-snow-and-the-final-cat/ Personal development techniques for artists, writers, musicians, photographers... Tue, 06 Jan 2009 11:55:43 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.1 By: jenistarfish http://www.thecreativeinstinct.com/2007/04/24/on-cherry-petal-snow-and-the-final-cat/#comment-19 jenistarfish Wed, 25 Apr 2007 06:46:21 +0000 http://www.thecreativeinstinct.com/2007/04/24/on-cherry-petal-snow-and-the-final-cat/#comment-19 It seems that all things of real beauty have the power to make us smile with joy or weep with sadness, sometimes at one and the same time. I had a cherry blossom moment myself out on my run yesterday. Running past the entrance to Rowntree Park in York the snow petals were a magic carpet of pink and enticed me inside. Pure joy, as I was through the first 30 minutes of my run and utterly in the moment. The petals were the gateway to the wonders of still waters, cackling playful geese, a rose trellis waiting for its blooms and a tree carving that almost certainly had not been authorised by the city council and nearly had me stopping in my running tracks for its sheer bold audacity. Even in this most joyful of magic carpet rides, I agree, Andy, that there was an underlying sadness. Why don't I see the blossom in this way all the time? How many opportunities have I missed to take a detour on a promise of nothing more than wonderment of what's inside? Where are the petals that I have missed forever now? It's life, Andy, as we should always know it. It seems that all things of real beauty have the power to make us smile with joy or weep with sadness, sometimes at one and the same time. I had a cherry blossom moment myself out on my run yesterday. Running past the entrance to Rowntree Park in York the snow petals were a magic carpet of pink and enticed me inside. Pure joy, as I was through the first 30 minutes of my run and utterly in the moment. The petals were the gateway to the wonders of still waters, cackling playful geese, a rose trellis waiting for its blooms and a tree carving that almost certainly had not been authorised by the city council and nearly had me stopping in my running tracks for its sheer bold audacity. Even in this most joyful of magic carpet rides, I agree, Andy, that there was an underlying sadness. Why don’t I see the blossom in this way all the time? How many opportunities have I missed to take a detour on a promise of nothing more than wonderment of what’s inside? Where are the petals that I have missed forever now?

It’s life, Andy, as we should always know it.

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