A lowly little flower is blooming under the asphalt of the world. It’s wriggling its way up, knowing it is needed now more than ever. It has always had a hidden existence, covered by so many layers of blackness, which car tires and airplane wheels roared over blindly. But now that all these means of transport are standing still, it has the opportunity to raise its head above the ground.
In the spot where the flower emerges, the old road crumbles into grains. A tiny green dash slides up like a lone antenna. Cracks appear in the road surface in a small circle. When rays of sunlight hit the flower, it shoots up higher, also growing small leaves. The wide asphalt plain, which catches the sunlight like a lazy hippo, is aware of this new life, which grows like an itch.
The asphalt does not like this little intruder, but is unable to close its ranks. The billions of grains lose themselves in their mutual attempts to nip it in the bud. This division creates even larger cracks in the road surface. It cracks open like ice floes under a ship’s bow. The small flower continues to grow undisturbed, finding joy in the process of its growth. It causes the landscape to renew itself moment by moment.
This flower is our (pure) consciousness. It is hidden somewhere under a mental highway, on which thoughts like the wheels of a million cars are constantly turning. Every day we turn on the asphalt mill of our mind again, trying to carefully fill the gaps in our thinking. We are used to no other sound than the constant roar of car wheels. In the front seat fear is squeezing its buttocks, next to hope with its cheerful sunglasses. In the backseat, regret and guilt fly over each other like squabbling children.
This flower wants to come up today. It wants us to turn off our engines to watch her. To see her. It lives on our attention. This flower is the most inconspicuous presence in the world. You can easily miss it. But if you stop now and bend over, you will notice that life is breaking open in colors and scents.