Sunflowers to the Rescue

Maybe I can do this blog thing. Because how the heck else would I be able to tell anyone about the sunflowers I saw on the way to work?

First of all, thanks to everyone who's ever shoved me, kicking and wailing, in the direction of learning to ride a bike. Because, had I not been on my bike, I would have completely missed them.

I ride past a smelting plant on my way to work. At least, I think that's what it is. It's hideous and rusty, it pollutes the air, and it employs lots of easily exploitable people. Whatever it is, it's evil. There are train tracks coming and going from the plant, and there are rocks and rubble all along the tracks. And growing among those rocks is a small, healthy community of gorgeous sunflowers. They're orange and yellow and red and brown, thriving and smiling and relishing each other's company, even though they live in the most lifeless, broken, soul-killing of places. I think it's probably because they stick together, looking into each other's faces and feeding each other's brilliance. They probably drink wine and dance and sing together and hug and love and cry together (when no one is looking). And, lo and behold, their simple presence graces all the ugliness around them with life and beauty and whimsy and sunshine. And I think the ugliness around them makes them even more beautiful. Like candles. Or Amélie. Or the red balloon.

And maybe they'll drop seed and spread, and next year there will be more, and then more, and then maybe some day the whole hill will be so overgrown with sunflowers that the smelting plant will be overcome with life and will be forced to shut down and go into business as a nursery, selling and giving sunflowers to all the neighbors. (Is this metaphor too tired and trite? Sorry.)

There might be hope for this dreary little town after all.