Yesterday, I was weeding. And rewriting. I would weed a little and rewrite a little and weed some more and rewrite some more.
I found both tasks uniformly miserable.
But I kept going.
At one point (in a weeding session), I was pulling up crabgrass from between the cracks in the sidewalk, and I discovered a small, purple beetle hiding in the dirt. Everything about him was elegant and compact. He was like something out of a fairy tale or a jewelry box.
I was bent over, studying him, when he spread his wings and flew away.
I could hear the click of his wings as they opened.
I could hear the whirr of his leaving.
I took him as a blessing. And a reminder.
Of the unexpected beauty hiding between the cracks of things; of the elegance you might unearth just by bending over, showing up, looking.

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