There is a plant in the garden that only opens its flowers at dusk. All day it seems asleep, closed, offering nothing. And when the sun goes down, it unfolds.
At first it seemed like a waste to me. Why bloom when there is almost no light left, when no one is going to see it?
Then I thought that maybe that plant knows something I am learning little by little: that every being has its moment, and that not all moments are the same.
There are people who bloom by day, in the bustle, in action. And there are others who bloom at dusk, in intimacy, when the noise drops and there is room for what is essential. Both are valid.
I believe I am one of those who bloom at dusk. It is hard for me to shine in crowds, but in calm, in closeness, in conversations of two, I slowly open up like that plant.
I no longer try to be a noon flower. I have stopped comparing my moment with that of others.
Every afternoon, when the plant unfolds its petals, it seems to tell me: you also have your hour. You just have to find it.