I once planted a garden that came up weeds. There were flowers, but they were scrawny, unloved things. Completely out of sight, they cowered beneath a dense canopy of green. Expansive wings soaked up all of the sun and water. Even my love for the flowers I had planted from seeds was captivated by the weeds.
I remember transplanting many of them—the weeds, I mean—thinking they needed more room. I was concerned that they weren’t budding, but I kept hoping maybe soon. Despite the lack of blooms, I kept up my care of them. I even gave them extra food, and sat near them with my morning coffee and newspaper. I talked to them about such blooms as I could imagine.
After some time, my own doubts were silenced, choked off by the length and scope of my investment; just as the flowers were choking beneath my weeds. Someone else had to show me. Someone else with knowledge of flowers—and weeds—carefully parted my weeds to show me the flowers.
All of us contain the seeds of everything.