I love tulips. If I could, I would spend several days every spring at Keukenhof, the Dutch equivalent of a Disney theme park for tulips. The moment you can buy tulips in the store, I bring home bunches. I love them even (especially?) when they have died and the petals lie in random patterns on the table that holds my vase. Recently I spent some time hiking in Greece. There I saw the original, native, species tulip. At first I did not recognize it, the plant was so small and so low to the ground. But I was enchanted by its delicacy and the purity of color in its red and yellow petals. And I was mesmerized by the vision of a field of these still unrecognized flowers growing in the wild amid rocks and greens and other plant cousins. When it hit me that I was looking at tulips, I had to ask, “What have we done?” We have cultivated tulips to the point where they bear little relation to their ancestor. While we have gained much from this process, my Greek experience tells me we have also lost something. Sometimes more really is less.
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