Flowers

A couple of years ago, while giving some money to a homeless, old man resting on the streets of Toronto, he woke up, gave me a thorough glance with a pair of gauzy, blue eyes, and suddenly inquired, while inspecting my winter coat, “What’s your work?”.
Without hesitation, I answered: “I’m an artist.”
I had no idea why I said that, considering I hadn’t used a brush or pencil since I was 16.
He chuckled, “An artist, huh? Making any money?”
“Almost as much as I’m spending.”
We both laughed.
He then went on asking, “Could you paint me a flower?”
I explained that I didn’t have any pencils with me.
“Not now. Sometime. Paint me a flower.”
“Sure. Sure I will, Sir.” I said.
…

When I got home, I used a ballpen and drew the ugliest, most disproportionate flower.
Yet, it didn’t really matter because there I stood, granting an opportunity to a dream that had been quashed before I could nurture it.

Since then, I’ve continued to draw and paint flowers. And perhaps, since then, I believe even harder that there are no accidents, no coincidences, no mistakes. Everything is unfolding the way is supposed to, at the right time, at the right pace.