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Tuesday, April 7, 2015
I suppose the metaphor is a bit cliché, but most people grow up as precious bulbs in a bed rich with the soil of their ancestors before them. They grow up shielded from the brutality of the real world and nourished not only by the blossoms that protectively loom over them, but also by the gardener who ensures that they have what they need to thrive and weather the storms that come and go. Eventually that little bulb will grow into a hardy plant that blooms with beauty that enriches the life around it when the conditions are right.
I'm not like most people--I was born a weed. I have haphazardly landed in strange soil in bed after bed. I've tried to plant my roots, slowly growing in the shadow of the beauty the looms above me only to be forcefully, but carefully to ensure none of my roots remain, yanked out and thrown away as soon as I begin to show who I am.
Once in a while a novice has protected and nourished me out of curiosity of what I would become, but they would eventually pluck me up with disgust as soon as I had everything I needed and began to bloom. My blossoms have never fully developed to show the world my full value. I have the kind of beauty and potential that nobody wants to infect and infest the life in their garden beds. They worry that I will kill the beauty of the others around me, so they toss me away as soon as they know what I am.