thistles and roses

There is a section of the Transvaalstraat, not far from our house, where a few small houses nurture a few small gardens in the scant meters between the sidewalk and their front doors. Most of these gardens are tidy, if not beautiful, and they lend a quiet sense of dignity and propriety to the neighborhood.

But there is one garden on the Transvaalstraat which displays a considerable degree of neglect, exuding a nest of sprawling thistels from corner to corner writhing knee-deep, even chest-deep. In a sense, it's hideous. Such harsh plants with such sharp, evil fingers of green swallowing up precious outdoor urban space. But in another sense, it's beautiful. Wild, vibrant green with tiny yellow blossoms -- a riot of untamed life that cannot and will not be held down.

And in the farthest corner of this frothing sea of thistles, a lone rose bush holds its ground. It's golden flowers complement the thistle-blossoms with quiet dignity. And I am reminded of the world in which we've been cursed to struggle and scratch a living from the ground promising only thorns and thistles... but also blessed to eat of the earth's grains and fight for tomorrow.