Not a Weed

There was a time I thought I was a weed.

Out of place.
Too much in some conditions,
not enough in others.

I tried to adjust.

To become more suitable.
To grow in the way the space seemed to require.

But something in me kept resisting.
Or perhaps, quietly failing.

—

It took a long time to realise
nothing was wrong with the plant.

It was the field.

—

Some places cannot receive what we are.

Not because they are wrong,
but because they are not shaped for us.

And in those places,
we begin to turn against ourselves.

We call it weakness.
Sensitivity.
Too muchness.

We forget to ask
whether we belong there at all.

—

A dandelion in a lawn is called a weed.
In a meadow, it is simply part of the field.

Nothing about it has changed.

—

These days, I am less interested in fixing the plant.

I am learning instead to notice the field.

Where there is space.
Where there is light.
Where something in me settles, even slightly.

That is often enough.

—

There is always another small opening.