Consider ivy.
Sure, there are other, bigger things to see from my bench. From this spot along Market Street in my home town, you can see the building where my father-in-law ran a loan company. Just a few doors down, see the hotel where Alison and I had our wedding reception. Down another block one can find the church where we married and now attend.
But ignore all that history in architecture. Disregard even the smaller details, like the town clock that I noticed for the first time.
And the strange animal that embellishes the bench’s armrests. (A griffin, perhaps?)
Instead, check out what’s all around this seat – and in some spots, growing through it.
Simple, green ivy.
Ivy has charm. First of all, there is the playful pointiness of the leaves, like starbursts on green tracers. Overlap them and you have a jigsaw puzzle never meant to be assembled, delightful in its disarray.
Then, it’s dogged. Persistent. A wall isn’t an obstacle to the vine, it’s a surface to use for more growth. Ivy excels at plant parkour, slower than slow, but no less sure-footed.
When it finds itself surrounded, it clings. And keeps moving.
That’s a useful picture to me. For over a lifetime, I’ve built solid walls of settled things – knowledge, skills, memories, beliefs, and habits, both good and bad. I know what I do well and what I don’t. For instance, that guy over there who is fixing his car – that’s something I don’t do well and never will. That’s okay with me.
It’s good not to have to re-construct all that knowledge everyday. Saves a ton of time. But then, what do I do with that time I’ve saved? I have a clear choice: sit back and settle inside the familiar walls or use them as a toehold to reach new territory. Cling for comfort or cling for growth.
I know it seems like I keep reiterating the purpose of my quest for this blog. But I am making progress – like rediscovering my love for photography and writing – even if it is slow.
Ask the ivy. Wall-crawling takes time.
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