An exotic pink and white flower the size of my hand and shaped like an artichoke grabbed my attention as I entered the grocery store. I had never seen anything like it, and I knew it needed to come home with me, though I rarely buy flowers and know very little about them. There was no label, so I wandered the aisles with the mysterious bloom peeking out of my bag. At checkout, I asked the clerk what it is called. She did not know, nor did anyone around us. With determination, a man who bagged groceries spotted a regular customer – a flower connoisseur – near the exit and chased her down. 

“What is this?” he asked as he curiously raised the stem high.  

“Protea. It comes from the days of the dinosaurs. And we get ours from Canada.” 

Suddenly, the flower that called out to me was transformed from a thing of beauty into a being with a story. Knowing its name, history and pilgrimage changed things for me. I wanted to find out more about the ancient plant, take care of it well and share it with others. 

Today the pink protea sits on the sill of my kitchen window, an out-of-place reminder that being known is different than being noticed, seen or appreciated. I think of the woman in the grocery store as my flower angel, divinely placed in my path to show me that names, histories and pilgrimages are essential elements of knowing both ourselves and others. 

Each morning, I tilt the bloom toward the sun and water it tenderly. I wait for it to open wide and share its full glory before this journey ends.