The weed grew in a roadside crack where the sidewalk met the curb. It sent its roots shooting deep into the earth below the concrete and tried as best it could to expand its territory. There were spots down there that were uncomfortably cramped, but this wild mustard plant knew how to adapt. Tight spaces were fine because every weed knows that patience and time will make every inch workable. Growing roots can conquer all obstacles.
Down deep in the earth below all the concrete and substructures, the weed had plenty of room to grow and thrive, and its roots were happy. But above ground it was the thrilling sight of the gaily colored cyclists that made the weed’s heart ache and its flowers droop. Every weekend they flew past in groups of twenty or thirty or more, each cyclist an individual, but all pumping and straining together like one great strong healthy machine. There was power and camaraderie in those groups as they cycled, conquering the slope and making the incline both their adversary and their partner in their quest for the top of the hill and the betterment of their selves.
The weed wanted to go along too. He wanted to be a part of the colored band of wheeled warriors. He wanted to speed along with them and become one of their group. He wanted to use his power and determination to race to the top of the hill.
But in the crack he remained, stuck in one lowly spot, encased in concrete. Squirm as he might, the weed could not free himself from the embrace of the curb and sidewalk that kept him rooted. With every squirm, his roots dug deeper and spread out wider to more firmly grasp the soil beneath the surface. As he fought and fought to come loose, the weed’s roots grew ever stronger. So instead of focusing on what lay below, the weed put his energy into growing long his leaves and stems and flower stalks. He grew and grew and grew so long so as to stretch out his limbs and try to touch the wheeled ones as they sped past.
Some of the cyclists noticed the weed, and they gave it room, choosing not to pedal too closely to it. In doing so they respected the weed and its rightful place. As the weeks went on the weed grew bushier and its stalks grew longer. More and more cyclists took note of the weed and the group soon began to mark their progress by it. They knew that once they passed the weed, there was only one mile left until they reach the top of the hill.
While still staying in one place, the weed had managed to join their group. Perhaps the message to take away from this weed is, “Reach out and touch someone!”
Please come back tomorrow for a new “Weed Image of the Day” and let me know which ones you like.
We and our weeds are so much more than what we first appear to be.
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