July 23, 2008


This morning, after snapping at my husband, rushing my kids and pounding down my coffee like a saki bomb (with about the same amount of mess, sadly), I decided to skip the discipline of the gym and just go for a walk. You know- stepping out the front door, putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward. While I love the gym and all it has to offer, there's something demoralizing about those treadmills and stair-steppers, like I'm a gerbil on my wheel: I never get anywhere.

Anyway. So, here I am, walking uphill, soaking in the sun, calming down, breathing, all that good stuff. My mind starts to clear the farther I walk. At at hearty pace (Ha! Get it, hearty? I'm so clever.), I begin to feel restored as I reach the top of the neighborhood. Finally, I start to look around.

Everywhere, there are flowers. Pots and pots of them all around people's houses, bushes and plants in every bit of landscaping, wildflowers taking over empty lots. At first, I just enjoyed the view and scent of this summer cornucopia. Then I noticed a phenomenon, a kindred vitality to each and every bloom.

They were all, down to the last daisy, turned toward the sun. Even the trees seemed to be leaning every so slightly, branches and leaves straining upwards. I later learned, they follow the sun across the sky every day, drooping slightly and closing their petals in the darkness until it returns.

Amazing. It got me thinking about all the time we, in the most general terms, spend inside. There always seems to be something more to do, some comfort or bit of responsibility that requires attention.

Here are these flowers, though; basic, simple life, valued more for decoration than any other quality. Yet a genetic yearning toward an enigma of vital light fills each and every one, while we stay in our cars and buildings- windows up, curtains drawn.

Makes me wonder.

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