I’m attracted to a small tree I can see from my balcony window. From my viewpoint, it looks like it has been stripped of all its leaves but it stands there, defiantly blooming, wearing bright red flowers on top like a cap. The trees next to it are giants.
I wonder — who planted it? Unlike the other trees that are carefully arranged in a line and are about the same age, it seems so random. Did it grow from a seed that was carelessly dropped by a flying bird, and the caretakers of the land decided to just let it be? Or was it deliberately planted?
Perhaps one day I’ll walk down to the field and ask the quizzical caretakers how it came about.
Meantime, whenever I look out my balcony window, I admire it. I am amazed by how it stands alone in a field that doesn’t look that well-cared for — in some places, the grass has dried or has disappeared. But there it is, blooming its bright red blooms.
I guess I’m like that tree: I’m uniquely myself, I don’t look or sound or behave like others. I can stand out at times, unintentionally, for just being me, blooming where I’m planted, against the odds. Just like that tree.