Every Saturday, I arrange flowers at the entrance of my office.
Deciding which flowers to arrange is both a joy and, at times, a pain.
I don't have a great variety of vases, and I'm working with a tight budget. But within those constraints, I try to arrange fresh flowers that will soothe as many hearts as possible. I've started to think that maybe I'm doing this more for myself than anything.
Now, yesterday, I went to my usual florist.
There, on the table, was a trombone, boldly placed.
"I've been polishing my trombone after a long time," the florist said, referring to the instrument that had been sitting in the corner of the shop. Today, it sat on the entrance table, looking slightly proud.
When I asked, I was told that several bands had been requesting him to play the trombone.
"I'm not a professional player," he admitted, "I'm content with just playing in a hobby band for fun."
"But the people who are asking are in trouble because they don't have a trombonist," he explained.
He admitted, "I haven't played for a long time, so I'm not sure I can produce a satisfying sound anymore. I'm already 54."
"But if you were a 70-year-old senior," I suggested, "they probably wouldn't ask you. Since you've been asked, why not practice and give it a shot? You've been polishing this trombone; isn't that a sign that you're considering playing?"
"54 is no age to hesitate. Why not give it a shot?"
(I wondered if I had been too intrusive, pushing him too hard.)
As I was leaving, I looked back and saw the florist's face. He looked happier and more cheerful than usual.