Waiting is life. It’s to walk on the edge of time, to feel the gravity of anticipation as it bends time into something elastic and unyielding. For the florist, who grows in acceptance of nature, waiting is a necessity and a philosophy, as it is connected to the seasons as roots in the earth.
We are well acquainted with this art—waiting for the first signs of life in spring, the hesitant opening of dahlias, the precious chrysanthemums finally showing their true splendor. Each growth cycle is a practice of endurance, but we can never overcome it.
TS Eliot, in his poem, “Little Gidding” from Four Quartets, wrote of “the calm between two waves of the sea”. For florists, seasonal gardeners, this silence is winter. The fields are quiet, relaxing, and devoid of the glitter of flowers. It is a sterile kind of beauty, though not so deep. Waiting for spring begins when the frost withers the last bloom, leaving the heart open, yearning for color and life.
But the wait is more than the absence. It is discipline. It takes faith that the unseen will eventually appear—weak at first, then victorious. Nowhere is this more evident than when growing dahlias. This past year, many of us have waited longer than we expected. Despite planting on time and in a planned manner, they remain, contradicting our principles and desires. Nature has its own rhythm, it doesn’t care about our impatience. And when those first flowers finally arrived, late but bright, they reminded us that beauty is rarely chased.
Yet there is another kind of waiting, which is less poetic and practical, and which requires a firm hand. Some flowers, if harvested too soon, never reveal their full potential. Zinnias, for example, only reach their maximum durability and vase life if they are left on the stem long enough to harden. The act of waiting is not just a choice but a willingness to let the flower be.
The Heritage chrysanthemum embodies this fact in metaphorical ways. These flowers, planted with purpose and care, transform for a long time and stay on the stem. Their flowers deepen, their colors intensify, and their character comes in layers. Cutting them early is an act of impatience, which robs them of their beauty. And yet, once they are cut, their longevity in the vase is not diminished, their strength is not hindered by their time in the field.
In the world of business, where speed is often mistaken for efficiency, this practice of waiting can feel revolutionary. The pressure to harvest quickly—whether to meet limited quantity or demand—often ignores the simple fact that flowers, like people, need time. A quick chrysanthemum is a lost opportunity, its beauty is curtailed before it fully reveals itself.
For flower growers, the wait is twofold. It is a longing for the flowers themselves, the return of life to the fields and the lifting of the heart before them. But it is also to prevent them from staying in their place, to allow the zinnia to be strong, the chrysanthemum to bloom in full majesty.
The act of waiting, in this way, is surrender and rebellion. It defies the urgency of the modern world, instead emphasizing the old rhythms of the world. Waiting shapes us the way it shapes the flowers we plant. It teaches us that beauty is not just born of color and form but is born of time, trust, and calm between seasons.
As the fields rest and the flowers fall asleep, waiting is empty. It is the weight of what is to come, the fullness of anticipation. And when the first spring flowers appear, it will be worth all the painful time. In the paradox of patience, waiting is not just the absence of action but the deep trust that goodness will come in its time, strong and enduring delay.
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