the morning glory which blooms for an hour, differs not much from the great pine, which lives for a thousand years. -Zen Poem.

there sits, below the surface, a wish to be special. a need to stand out, to feel important. to be part of the story, central, for in our lives we sit in the center of it all. the world plays out in a 3 dimensional play before our eyes. characters move in and out, time and space unfold in front of us, like light passing through space. in it all, we age. our hair grows, then falls out, our skin sags, winkles and thins. in this all our mind fires away with thoughts, second guessing at the myriad of choices that lay before us but are already made. in it all, we make the story real. we buy objects, we form meaningful relationships, we cut at the earth, build our houses and tell our stories. 

plants grow. taking root where they can. grown from an errant seed, aloft and left to grow in a field not of its choosing, the only thing it knows is to grow. reaching for sunshine, its days consist of making due with the water it has, avoiding the elements that will take from its life. It knows little about the meaning of it all, it only knows to exist. to climb. to collect what growth it can, produce its own seeds and continue to spread, not knowing what lies in the forest beyond. 

as the sun comes into the window, i ask myself what will the day bring? to react further to the circumstances of my surroundings, punch harder at the mounting work or reach deeper into the relationships awaiting further exploring. sheltered on all sides, my insulated home has come from a cultivation of work and luck, its boundaries are larger then many, its comfortable and like a flower clamouring for light, it suits the space in the garden i have inhabited. the roots run deep, in time it will fall apart as will i, left to another petal to come along and take root and start again.