A sea of green. Grasses of several kinds, grown knee-high and blowing in the breeze.
It’s a peaceful, idyllic scene, this acre upon acre of green.
orange! Orange of all things. A orange blob right in the middle of all this verdant, lovely green. An interruption. An annoyance. Like a lightning bolt to my eyeballs. Piercing and wild. Why? Why here?
I waded through the grasses to get a closer look. I found that this bright, almost glowing orange was actually a tightly clustered bunch of petals. A gutsy, piercing, look-at-me! blossom. A beauty, standing out boldly in her own way. I studied it for a while, wondering about its roots.
Later that day, walking through the acres, I saw another orange splotch, hundreds of yards away from the one I first noticed. How did they get there? Are they family, I wondered? Long lost sisters, maybe? Or even just spreading their wings?
“It’s just a weed,” a friend said.
But it’s pretty, I thought. What makes something a weed, anyway?
(Being me, I looked it up, of course.)
I now know that a weed can be anything that grows where it’s not planted on purpose. That turns up where it’s not wanted. Where it’s not supposed to be. Even someone’s prize roses can be a weed if they come up in a pumpkin patch.
It’s all about context. Beauty can be anywhere. I noticed and admired these orange ladies more so because they were dramatically different than all the deep green surrounding them.
From these brazen orange beauties I learned to just bloom wherever I happen to be. Make the most of where I am, even if it’s not the perfectly sunny spot. I don’t need approval to show my true colors. To be myself, grow and blossom, wherever I plant my own feet.
Have the courage to be different. To stand out. Will everyone appreciate it? Not the meticulous gardeners. Who like it all in control. But to other eyes, I might just be the antidote to the ordinary that they need. The splash of color in a sea of monotony. The lightning out of the blue, or green. The inspiration to spread their wings.