Every morning, after dropping my children off at school, I drive away thinking of all the work that lies ahead of me, of the demands of the day, of the ways that I will parse my time and the people I will attend to. When I arrive, every day, I park my car in the alley, distracted by all that is required of me, all that I want to give.
But when I open the door to get out, each time, I am surprised by the solitary wildflower that is growing between the cracks in the concrete. What began as an improbable, scrawny little branch last year has now grown many limbs, is occupying space. And it blooms abundantly, colorful and bright, amidst the drabness of the neglected alley, in spite of the dust.
I find myself slowing before it, despite the expected arrival of a client or the pile of tasks that awaits on my desk. I find myself slowing before it in gratitude, for the surprise of it, for its beauty, for the layers of meanings, and the reminders it holds for me.
Every day, I stop a moment, to gaze upon a wildflower, and to recover my Self.