All Praise Be to Allah by Uriah Hutto

Each sun-kissed daffodil bounces back and forth in the refreshing spring breeze. Every flower an individual, but at the same time keeping the melodic ebb and flow of the others. Depending how you look, what you want your vision to be, you see one or you see all. You see just a bunch of flowers, or just the one. I tend to look at the one. A flower just being a flower.

"Thank you for half-a-million views!" (photo by Flickr user Steve-h)

I wonder if it has a name? If not, I shall call it Bob. Bob is a fitting name for this stubby flower. Short, yet wider than the others, a tad askew and unkempt. The fully bloomed bulbous head sticking out of the masses and saying, “I’m Bob. I like sun and water.”

We already have much in common Bob and I; I like sun and water, too. As I get out of my own head, departing from the worries and nonsense that tend to encapsulate my brain, Bob begins to be my teacher, my spiritual guru in plant form, my own personal Jesus.

You see, Bob knows how to do something I don’t. Bob knows how to simply be what he is. He has no concern over the past or the future. Bob is content being in the now, and he does a damn good job of it.

I become envious of the simplicity that is Bob, so carefree, so effortless. A tinge of anger builds in me knowing that a mindless plant has things together more than I do. I rise from my weathered, half-broken rocking chair while taking a sip of my now lukewarm beer.

I have one mission in mind, to pluck Bob.

Halfway there though it becomes clear that if I pluck Bob I will also have to pluck Nancy and Doris and Florence. Again, all different, but all one united front. Lucille and Dick and Norman and Pearl. Why do all these flowers have names from the 40s and 50s? Maybe because they’re old souls. They bloom, flower, wilt, and die. Then in the spring it starts all over again, reincarnated flowers from the black-and-white television era.

I sit back down, eyes gazing at Bob. He looks back at me, swaying to and fro, almost a cocky smile smeared on his flower face. I submit to Bob, and follow the notion of the other flowers he leads to the Promised Land. I just am, and enjoy this moment to its fullest. Because of Bob I’ve learned to live.

All praise be to Allah.

Or God.

Or Jah.

Or Jehovah.

Or Jesus.

They are all really the same thing. Or are they all different? Guess it depends on how you choose to see.

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Born and bred in South Carolina means Uriah Hutto talks a little funny and possesses great manners, as well as high blood pressure and probably high cholesterol. After three non-platinum rap albums, Uriah has turned his creative faculties towards writing. Instead of entertaining people on the stage with his actions, he would rather entertain people with his feelings and emotions, which he balls up and turns into printed words. He is currently working on a compilation of works entitled Meditations With Jason: A Collection of Ramblings. Uriah’s prose style is well-polished and descriptive. His approach to writing is very unique and humorous. Uriah enjoys beer a little too much, and can be found on Facebook and Blogger.