It creeps around neighborhoods promising over-priced sugary bliss and pours carnival-theme music through pitted speakers so loudly that the tinny notes bore through your head and take residence there for days. Everything about this ice cream truck screams, "run away!" From its rusted fenders which promise tetanus (or at the very least an infection), to the greasy man in a wife-beater who growls a greeting through his tooth.Yet time and time again we send our trusting children out, gripping sweaty dollar bills and quarters in their grubby fists, telling them it's OK to buy perishable products from shady strangers. Should we be wary of the message we are sending? Or is this another case of judging a book by its cover?I pondered this as I ate my popsicle stick-flavored fudge pop today (my husband does not have the same uneasiness about buying food from creepy people). I came to the conclusion that in the food industry there is no shame in judging a book by its cover!Every good business person knows that in order to attract customers your place of business needs to be appealing and clean. Maybe this is why the ice cream pimps market to young children playing outside away from the scrutinizing eyes of their parents. Kids will take sweet stuff from anywhere! It could be covered in dirt and hair, but as long as it tastes sweet it's fair game.It has to be a conspiracy!
I took a walk in the woods today. And as I picked my way across the occasional strewn boulder or exposed root, I contemplated new beginnings and new life -and my life. I do this every spring. I know, cliche. Hardly the topic for riveting reading.
I looked for something in nature to express how I have been feeling lately. I pondered a stream that wandered through rocky banks and half-exposed trees. It gurgled contentedly at me and swirled a wayward leaf.
I paused and photograhed a bald, lanky tree that had fallen into a neighboring sapling, causing it to grow crookedly, accomodating the dead weight. The friction of tree-on-tree groaned at me with a passing breeze.
Then I noticed something in my path. I almost missed it, actually, almost stepped on it, crushing it with my size sevens. Upon further research I found it to be Houstonia serphyllifolia, otherwise known as Thymeleaf Bluet. This dainty wildflower is everywhere in the woods, but never alone. It always has the company of many others of its kind. Seeing a solitary bloom thrust through a carpet of moss caught my attention.
This miniature invasion to the worn footpath sums up nicely how I have been feeling of late. A unique creature, surrounded by a different species. Separated from others of its kind. Blown by the wind to an isolated location, left to thrive in a spot where it can be stepped on, kicked over, crushed by a wayward passerby.
I resisted the urge to claw into the moss and underlying soil to free it from its precarious location. Would my interference save the delicate bloom or cause its demise? Will the inevitable foot traffic snap the stem, cutting it off from its water supply? I told myself I was being rediculous, it's only one of thousands, an insignificant weed.
I trekked on, conflicted, but not looking back. In hindsite I should have saved it and transplanted it alongside its family. Maybe that would give my situation some hope, myself some anticipation of survival. But I am being rediculous. After all, I am no delicate flower.
