Where Cold Concrete Meets Hard Red Brick

Wonder, by Mark Smith

Mother Nature works her magic
in some of the strangest places.
I know of one of those spaces,
where cold concrete meets hard red brick.

Between that brick and grey concrete,
I saw a tip of green appear,
and grow, as warmer days drew near,
beside a busy city street.

Then sun and rain transformed that green
into yellow springtime flowers.
Color brought to a barren scene,
courtesy of magic powers.

These lone pansies reminded me,
there still is wonder here to see.

Several years ago, I headed downtown to grab a bowl of soup on my lunch break. I had walked that sidewalk many times, usually deep in thought as I strolled along. All that deep thinking often rendered me pretty oblivious to my surroundings. Truth told, I had probably traveled that block many, many times without really noticing where I was going.

But on this one particular day, my powers of observation were in high gear. Good thing, too. At the corner, I spied a pansy growing where no vegetation should have ever grown. Where hard red brick bumped right up against the stone foundation of a store, verdant green leaves were topped with bright yellow pansy blossoms.

There were no gardens nearby from which a little pansy seed might have migrated. And, strictly speaking, there was nowhere for the pansy to actually grow. A handful of sand — Sand! Not dirt! — was wedged in that space between sidewalk and building. Perhaps the sand had collected there during winter ice abatement (in which case, it probably had some road salt mixed in with it). My pansy resided there, in that tiny, almost imperceptible clump (it scarcely qualified as a “clump”) of sand.

My jaw dropped.

I snapped a picture. Mark Smith, one of the many people to whom I showed the photo, was inspired to pen the poem, “Wonder,” that opens this reflection.

Wonder of wonders!

There are lots of ways I manage to be anything other than fully present to my world and surroundings. In my case, hyper-focus can tune out an awful lot. Whenever my family is headed somewhere, I am almost always in the driver’s seat. My eyes are on the traffic and road signs, and my mind is on reaching the destination. Naturally I miss a lot, because I cannot take in roadside wonders as I might like to do. I have to trust passengers to tell me if they see anything interesting along the roadside. Metaphorically speaking, I sometimes live my life as driver — focused on what is straight ahead. Being goal-oriented has its advantages, namely where efficiency is concerned. But I also miss a lot when I am hyper-focused, because my mind disregards anything it interprets as a distraction from reaching my goal.

Sometimes, I miss what is happening right in front of my eyes, because I am lost in my inner ruminations. I have always been a daydreamer. Ruminations, too, have their plus side. They often provide the source of my creativity. I treasure that, but I also admit that the outer world slides by when I am so involved in my inner world.

Oh, to be fully present! Between being focused on my goal and prone to ruminating, being fully present is sometimes so hard for me! It involves intention and practice. But when I manage to be fully present, I observe what is happening in both my inner world and the outer world. Although I no longer remember all the details, the day I saw the pansy growing in the tiny, sandy crack between brick sidewalk and granite foundation must have been one such day of full awareness.

What is important to me — and increasingly so — is the opportunity to capture those small moments of wonder that are often so easy to miss, even when they are right under my nose. “Those lone pansies reminded me there is still wonder here to see,” wrote Mark Smith. I don’t want to miss the wonder. And, when I spot some small wonder, it’s good for my soul to celebrate it and to feel gratitude well up inside me.

Barbara Brown Taylor tells this wonderful story — a powerful reminder to pay attention and to take hold of wonder and awe when it miraculously appears:

“I have never been presented with a burning bush, but I did see a garden turn golden once. I must have been 16, earning summer spending money by keeping a neighbor's cats while she was away. The first time I let myself into the house, the fleas leapt on my legs like airborne piranha. Brushing them off as I opened cat food and cleaned litter pans, I finally fled through the back door with the bag of trash my employer had left for me to carry to the cans out back.

“I could hear the fleas inside flinging themselves against the plastic, so that it sounded as if a light rain were falling inside the bag. I could not wait to be shed of it, which was why I was in a hurry. On my way to the cans, I passed a small garden area off to the left that was not visible from the house. Glancing at it, I got the whole dose of loveliness all at once – the high arch of trees above, the mossy flagstones beneath, the cement birdbath, the cushiony bushes, the white wrought-iron chair – all lit by stacked planes of sunlight that turned the whole scene golden. It was like a door to another world. I had to go through it. I knew that if I did, then I would become golden too.

“But first I had to ditch the bag. The fleas popped against the plastic as I hurried to the big aluminum garbage cans near the garage. Stuffing the bag into one of them, I turned back toward the garden, fervent to explore what I had only glimpsed in passing. When I got there, the light had changed. All that was left was a little overgrown sitting spot that no one had sat in for years. The smell of cat litter drifted from the direction of the garbage cans. The garden was no longer on fire. (An Altar in the World, 25, 26)

Our world is pretty crazy, but Mark Smith assures us there is still wonder here to see. Sometimes it’s okay to set the trash bag down on the ground and watch the garden turn golden. In fact, I would argue it is imperative to do so. To capture those small moments of beauty and miracle, one needs to open one’s eyes.

Now, I realize, of course, that if I open my eyes, I see the world’s pain, too. That, too, is important. If I am going to find my work in the world — my ways to help build a world of justice and peace — then I need to be able to discern where the world’s pain and my gifts intersect. To feed my soul and to avoid burnout, I also need to capture and offer thanks for any moments of beauty and grace — whether large or small — that populate my days. I need to spot the place where a lone, unexpected, volunteer flower softens and transforms the place where cold concrete meets hard red brick.

This spring, I was delighted to find a pansy volunteer growing in my garden. Unlike the sidewalk pansy of yore, this volunteer made sense. It was growing in the same spot where I had planted a flat of pansies last year. At least one seed evidently survived in situ over the winter. In addition, over the last few years I have developed good soil in my gardens, so my little volunteer had a suitable spot to set down roots. Still, I thrilled to see it. My heart did a little dance when I found those unexpected purple blossoms decorating my yard.

But that unlikely little yellow pansy downtown a few years ago? Now that was a wonderment to me. And I was awestruck and grateful. I still am.

Love,

Sylvia