Public Appearances

I enjoy walking in the mornings.  I've traced a couple miles worth of sidewalks around my townhome development.  On Saturday mornings, a neighbor and his dog sit on the front porch.  On my second loop, he pauses from smoking his pipe to ask me, "forget something?" 

I know exactly where the dogs are in the neighborhood because they bark when I pass.  I miss them if they are napping.  I have watched the cultivation of many mini crops over the summer.  A variety of tomato plants (nothing like a NJ tomato).  A great looking eggplant stalk.  Some peppers.  Some basil or the hopeful cilantro (always hard in NJ). 

There's a woman who has at least 30 plants, all different sizes, shapes and colors strewn around her home, including a patch of sunflowers, staked and standing 7 feet tall.  I finally met her one day; her name is Dolly. 

Earlier in the summer, it had hardly rained.  The grass was brown and brittle.  I could almost hear people's pots beg me for a drink of water.  But while we were away, it rained in NJ.  I've come back to a very different terrain.  The grass is green.  People's planters... well, they're stringy but alive.  The fruit is starting to grow - tomatoes are turning red, peppers are plumping out, even that eggplant stalk looks good.  (The cilantro... it never works here, they pulled it out.) 

Burdock Flower, for medicinal purposes, click here

As I was rounding the back of my home, I noticed a small fuchsia plant growing all alone in the back field.  I smiled and kept going but the voices in my head said, "Go back, check it out.  Aren't you interested in this dessert looking plant?"  So I turned around.

The back field had patches of green disbursed among the brown.  And in a green patch, this flower bloomed.  I wondered, how deep are its roots?  How long had it been growing before it made its public appearance?  I was so glad to have stopped, to honor its display. 

I vowed to go back and take a picture of it. 

The next day when walking, I smiled as I turned the corner, waiting to see the fuchsia speck in the distance and it wasn't there.  I slowed down, wondering if I had a. dreamed the whole thing, b. had the wrong corner, c. the wrong spot, d. none of the above. 

The was d.  I quickly realized that the lawn had been cut.  This beautiful plant, with its deep roots and long journey had been mowed over.  It was the only thing in the large back field of grass.  To the landscaping crew it was a weed.  No one had cultivated it specifically for that space.  It grew on its own, planted from seeds that came on the wind. 

I tried to find the spot; I wanted to see if I could see its roots.  Nothing.  I'm certain that they are there.  But to those of us looking from the outside, the life and strength of this weed goes unseen. 

By definition a weed is a plant that we have not found use for yet.  Weeds are resilient and they are often beautiful.  Many have proven medicinal qualities and are edible (of course not after years of a diet of round-up.)  

As I stood above the patch of greenish brown grass, I had the following thoughts.  I love that this plant grew deeper when it was dry.  I love that this plant found a way to make a public appearance - and in fuchsia!  (My grandmother used to say that fuchsia matches everything, haha!)  I loathe that in one afternoon, a big machine leveled the plant.  I love that there is a large untouchable plant beneath the surface. I thought that I would sense the plant's disgust at being chopped down.  Instead I sense the plant smiling.  I think it's gearing up for Act 2. 

And so I walked away loving that we also grow deeper when it's dry.  We also find a way, amidst struggle and hurt and disappointments and confusion to make a public appearance - sometimes in fuchsia.  I loathe that sometimes things outside of our control can level us.  And yet beneath the surface of each of us there is something untouchable. 

And instead of being disgusted by that which levels us, I too smiled realizing that we too can gear up for Act 2.