People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad

Hear the luminous words of Iris Murdoch, philosopher and poet of the soul, who declared: “People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.” In this vision, she bids us to imagine how wondrous, how astonishing, how sacred flowers truly are, when seen not with the eyes of habit, but with the eyes of awe. For we, who live surrounded by blossoms, so often take them for granted. Yet if a stranger from a barren world were to come among us, they would believe we live in paradise, blessed beyond measure to breathe in such beauty daily.

The meaning is profound: flowers are not mere ornaments, but emblems of grace, of fleeting wonder, of life’s silent generosity. They bloom not for profit, not for fame, not for recognition, but simply to be—to color the fields, to sweeten the air, to whisper the poetry of existence. Murdoch reminds us that the presence of flowers should fill us with unending gratitude, and that failing to rejoice in them is to live blind to a miracle.

History teaches us this truth through the story of the Dutch Tulip Mania of the seventeenth century. Tulips, newly arrived from distant lands, were so rare and wondrous to European eyes that men sold fortunes to possess them. A single bulb was worth more than gold, for in those days, people recognized their almost otherworldly beauty. Though greed turned this wonder into folly, the tale shows that flowers, when first seen without familiarity, have the power to move nations. Imagine then, how much joy a planet devoid of blossoms would feel upon beholding even a single tulip.

Think also of Vincent van Gogh, who in the depths of suffering still found salvation in painting sunflowers. To him, their golden faces were not mere objects of color, but radiant companions, blazing with life. He saw in them something divine, something that transcended despair. His art reveals what Murdoch teaches: that flowers are not trivial, but profound; not decoration, but revelation. They are messengers of beauty that can heal even the darkest hearts.

Yet Murdoch’s words also carry a hidden rebuke. For though we are surrounded by such treasures, we seldom live as though they matter. We pass fields of blossoms without pausing, we place roses in vases without awe, we let the fragrance of lilacs drift by unnoticed. A visitor from a flowerless planet would think us fools—not for having flowers, but for failing to rejoice in them. The tragedy is not scarcity, but blindness to abundance.

O children of tomorrow, take this lesson into your hearts: look upon the flowers as though you had never seen them before. Let the violet’s quiet grace, the rose’s bold flame, the daisy’s innocent smile awaken in you the joy that Murdoch describes. Do not treat them as common, for nothing in creation is common. Each bloom is a miracle, fleeting as breath, yet radiant as eternity.

Therefore, let your practice be this: cultivate gratitude for beauty. When you walk, notice the wildflowers; when you rest, smell the blossoms; when you work, keep near you something that blooms. Let the presence of flowers remind you of life’s generosity, of joy that asks for nothing in return. For in every petal lies a silent hymn, and to listen is to remember the holiness of being alive.

Thus Iris Murdoch’s words endure: “People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.” Let them awaken your eyes, that you may see what is already around you, and live as one truly blessed—walking each day among miracles, and rejoicing.