There was an extended period of time where my soul took refuge in decay. Peeling paint, abandoned houses, junk yards, junk shops, rust and ruin all captured my artistic eye. These weathered and worn out apparitions would be captured through lenses, or carried home for future mixed media forays and ready-made decor. The comely imperfections, the beckoning of rot, the shabbiness all felt comforting. But now, this now, there is no more comfort in decay. In this now, it is the arabesque of the bloom that soothes and satisfies my soul. Perhaps it is the metastatic cancer tumors holding sway in my mother's body. Perhaps it is the clock on the wall ticking away the possibilities of my dreams. Perhaps it is those very dreams desperate and ready to birth themselves into the light of day. One or all, it does not matter. What matters is the directive of my soul to heal itself of sorrow and decay and anything that is not an affirmation of life. And so, my soul chooses flowers. To focus on, to obsess over, to roll in their ecstasy if it were possible. To drink their color, to sing their scent, to cradle my heart in soft petals. There is no more refuge in ruin. Now there is only refuge in the beauty of a life in bloom.