A Wildflower’s Rebellion

(Whispers from the Crevice)

In one of Osho’s reflective works on Krishna, he narrates a simple, almost childlike story—yet layered with wisdom—that struck a chord with me. I’m neither advocating for nor opposing his philosophical stance, but I couldn’t help embracing the logic hidden in this tale. I retell it here—not as a sermon, but as a space for us to ponder, argue, dissect, and reflect…

The story goes like this: A little bunch of wildflowers lived sheltered in the crevices of an old city wall. Winds and storms failed to disturb them since the high wall and its crevices protected them well. For the same reason, the sun's rays could not burn them, nor could the rains ruin them.

There was a rosebush in the neighborhood of this little bunch of wildflowers. The presence of gorgeous roses made the wildflowers feel inferior and ashamed of their own existence.

So one fine morning, the wildflowers prayed to God, "So long we have lived as faceless flowers; now please turn us into roses."

God said in answer, "Why get into unnecessary troubles? The life of a rose is very hard. When there is a storm, it shakes it to its roots. And when it blooms, there is already someone around to pluck it. You live a well-protected life, don't forsake it.”

But the wildflowers insisted, "We have long lived a sheltered life, we now want to live dangerously. Please make us roses for twenty-four hours."

Other wildflowers pleaded, "Don't be crazy. We have heard that a few of our ancestors had to suffer terribly because of this very craze to become a rose. Our racial experience says we are okay as we are, we should not try to be roses.”

But the little plant again said, "I want to gossip with the stars; I want to fight with the storms; I want to bathe in the rains. I am determined to become a rose."

At long last, God yielded and one fine morning, the little bunch of wildflowers became a rose. And immediately, its saga of trials and tribulations began. Storms came and shook its roots. The rains came, and it was drowned in water. The midday sun burned its petals and made it suffer immeasurably. At all times, it was exposed to dangers from all sides.

Once again, other elderly wildflowers gathered round the newborn rose and said,

"We had told you so; you did not listen. Don't you see how secure you were in your old life? Granted, it had its problems, but they were old and familiar problems, and we were used to them. It was okay. Do you see what a mess you have made of your life?"

To this, the new rose said,

"You are fools. I say that it is far better to be a rose just for twenty-four hours and live dangerously than to live in lifelong security as little wildflowers protected by a high wall. It was great to breathe with the storms and fight with the winds. I was in contact with the Sun and I had a dialogue with the stars. I have achieved my soul and I am so fulfilled. I lived fully and I am going to die fully. As far as you are concerned, you live a life of living death."

Now, the question arises:

Was the Wildflowers' philosophy flawed?

Or was it, paradoxically, the most profound act of awakening?

There’s something quietly radical about their choice. They gave up the security of a shadowed existence for a fleeting moment of brilliance. Safety, after all, can become a beautifully crafted cage—comfortable, yes, but stifling. Their transformation wasn’t driven by vanity; it was a rebellion against stagnation. It was about touching the full spectrum of life—even if only briefly. It was not foolishness—it was a form of cautious courage. They knew the risks and still chose the storm.

Isn’t that spirit woven deeply into the life of Krishna?

Krishna never walked a path of comfort or avoidance. His was a life of profound paradox—a dancer in the battlefield, a philosopher at play, a lover with the heart of a warrior.

He didn’t avoid chaos; he infused it with clarity.

He didn’t escape the world; he entered it fully, unguarded and aware.

Like the wildflowers, he lived not to survive safely, but to experience the totality of life—its joy, danger, pain, and ecstasy.

And what about our modern lives?

We, too, often hover at the edge of the crevice—torn between the known and the possible. Do we stay protected, hidden in routines and expectations? Or do we dare to bloom, knowing the winds may not be kind? The wildflowers' story is not about botany. It’s a metaphor for bravery—for choosing vitality over longevity and authentic experience over sterile endurance.

This is not a call for recklessness, but for intentional aliveness. Much like Krishna’s flute—whose melody stirred souls from slumber—this story, too, nudges us to wake up from passive living.

So, I ask you—What Will You Choose?

The Crevice?

Or

The Storm??

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