I grew up watching the reality TV series Man vs. Wild. Looking back, it’s easy to chuckle at how staged some of the survival stunts were—eating raw meat from carcasses, drinking water from elephant dung, wrestling wild animals. It was entertainment. But once in a while, it would surprise me.
There was one episode I’ve never forgotten. The host Bear Grylls was somewhere deep in the jungle—I can’t remember exactly where. But at one point, he stopped. Right in the middle of all the trees, he noticed a solitary flower growing from the underbrush. He pointed to it and said something like, “No one would have ever seen this flower if I hadn’t pointed it out.” He lingered there for a moment.
So did I.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t part of the survival tips. But something about that moment—unscripted, quiet, and beautiful—planted itself in my mind. A single, delicate thing, blooming unnoticed in the wild. I’ve thought about that flower many times since.
What If No One Sees It?
It made me wonder:
How much quiet beauty exists in the world, unseen and uncelebrated?
Does it even matter if no one ever sees it?
That moment became almost mythical in my imagination—a story I return to when I think about meaning and purpose, especially as an artist. Artistic work is often like that flower—overlooked, yet still luminous with beauty. On the one hand, there’s something melancholy about that unseenness. But there’s also something strangely spiritual.
On some days, I feel the sting of that obscurity. I think: What’s the point of creating if no one notices? But on other days, I feel something deeper—an awe. There’s a kind of sacred joy in watching a sunset that no one else is watching. In writing a melody that might never be heard. In knowing that beauty doesn’t require an audience to be beautiful.
Does God Create Like This?
As a person of faith, I often think about how God creates.
My thoughts tend to arrive as questions:
Does it trouble the Creator that there are galaxies only now being discovered?
What moved Him to craft glowing creatures in the darkest parts of the sea?
What meaning does a flower hold, blooming deep in a forest no one will ever enter?
When I reflect on my own creative life, the search for applause can leave me exhausted and disillusioned. So what keeps God creating? Sometimes I wonder if, in my quietest, most awe-filled moments of creativity, I’m echoing something of His motivation: that maybe, at the center of it all, is joy—not a hunt for applause or a need for recognition, but just joy overflowing into creation.
And that thought grounds me.
It reminds me that beauty still matters, even when it’s hidden.
That meaning doesn’t disappear when no one is watching.
That in the act of making, I am sharing in something of His delight.
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