Pink Dresses & Honeybees on a Tuesday Morning

Written by Terri Chrestenson

Cover Photo: Photographer- Sage Finnell, Model- Kaeleigh James

Today, she wakes up and decides she is free.

The glow of the morning light peaks through the partially open blinds, casting linear shadows across her outstretched body. She lies awake in her bed and watches the sky fade from orange to pink to yellow to blue.

A beautiful blue sky for a beautiful day, filled with birds flying amongst the clouds, free.

Free, just like she is.

She gets out of bed and decides to put on her favorite pink dress and paint freckles across her cheeks. She isn’t planning on going anywhere or seeing anyone, but she likes the way she looks this way.

She wraps her favorite treats in a small wicker basket: a thermos of hot coffee, a thick slice of freshly baked sourdough bread, fig jam and a box of expensive chocolates she’s been saving for a nice occasion.

No day like a sunny Tuesday, she muses.

She gets on her bike and rides through the empty streets of the neighborhood. Under the golden sun and with the crisp morning air blowing against her face, alone in her own world, she feels powerful. She is powerful.

She rides and rides and rides until she nears the edge of the city.

A car honks, a jackhammer strikes the concrete, a woman yells a string of curses into her phone. A crowd of people on their daily commute surround her.

Her chest tightens as she navigates the sea of black blazers, leather briefcases and patent shoes. She feels foolish in her pink dress with her wicker basket and false reality. What had freed her this morning now chains her to the desire to shrink herself and disappear until she spots her saving grace: fresh-cut flowers, $5.

The reds, purples, yellows and pinks of the blooms out front of the corner market make her soul sing. Fresh-cut flowers, they smell of sweetness, they serve as a resting place for a passing honeybee, they say “I love you,” without an exchanging of words.

These flowers don’t exist to the people, hunched over their 6-by-2 screens. There’s no reds, purples, yellows, pinks, no sweetness, no honey bees, no “I love you,” just go, go, go.

“WHY AREN’T YOU SEEING THIS?” she wants to scream at them. “WHY CAN’T YOU SEEING ALL THIS BEAUTY ALL AROUND US?”

They walk these streets every day of the week from 7:45 a.m. to 8 a.m. They walk these streets so frequently that they aren’t even walking these streets anymore. They’re just walking.

They don’t see the flowers, the sunshine, the freshly painted mural on the side of the towering brick building, the poster for free guitar lessons, the handmade sign demanding peace and love and kindness. They don’t see the beauty, it’s just go, go, go.

Love yourself, they say. Never change. You are beautiful. Chase your dreams.

They also say, look like this, no, not like that, make more money, study harder, be better, do better, work harder, you’ll never make, you’re not enough, you’ll never be enough, you don’t belong, you’ll never get out, you’re mine, we own you.

She stops her bike on the corner of 14th Ave. and Market Street and gives herself a moment to stop and breathe. She looks up at the sky. The birds are still flying, free. She looks at the flowers. Fresh-cut flowers, $5.

And just like that, with the birds and the reds, purples, yellows and pinks, she’s reminded that she is free. Free, just like the birds. She is free.

She is sweet, she is among the honeybees, and as she picks up a bouquet for herself for no reason other than the fact that it’s a Tuesday and the sun is shining and the flowers are beautiful, she tells herself, “I love you.”

These little moments, the flowers, the sun, the birds, remind her that her life is made up of the little moments. These little moments hold an infinite amount of beauty.

These little moments are what makes life precious. But the world can be cruel and unforgiving and will continue to pass by, letting them go unnoticed until somebody decides to wake up one day and realize that the world is theirs to love.

Here, in these moments, is presence. No thoughts on what could have been or what should have been, or what isn’t going right or what isn’t good enough, just presence. These are little moments of humanity that tell us we are here, we are real, we are alive, and this is our life.

These moments, these feelings, chase them.

She gets back on her bike and rides and rides and rides, faster and faster to leave the city and find a patch of grass that’s blanketed under the warmth of the sun. The cityscape fades as she continues down the busy streets and just rides. She feels powerful. She is powerful.

Today, she is free. She is beautiful, she is capable. She is wearing a pink dress, her bike basket is adorned in a massive bouquet of reds, purples, yellows and pinks. She knows where she belongs and she loves herself. And so, the Tuesday morning goes on.