There’s a church I photographed years ago. Rural Kentucky. I enlarged the photo. Printed it out. Framed it. It’s currently hanging in my second bedroom. I’ve made it a habit to photograph churches.
I passed it last Saturday. I’d forgotten exactly where it was. But at the moment. I passed it I decided to come back and photograph it again. So on my way home from hiking, I stopped. Got out and clicked. I had also made a mental note about this house.
An interesting scenario. Falling apart. Decrepit. Abandoned. Yet. Flowers growing. Beauty abounding. Despite. Who knows if anyone will ever dwell here again? Doubtful, I’d say. Anyone will.
Interesting though. At least to me. God’s creation can linger. Evade. Conquer even though the human construction has failed. Basically it’s trash. Best most likely to be burned to the ground. But around it. Flowers bloom. Spring blossoms and another season comes.
I am not a master gardener. But I know a bit. I know that these yellow flowers are daffodils and daffodils grow from bulbs. Bulbs are not like seeds. In that birds and wind do not carry them. Bulbs are planted. By humans. And the resulting flowers return year after year. Meaning at some point some human planted these daffodil bulbs with the intent of sprouting beauty.
A human or group thereof built the house. Maybe, in fact, the same humans who planted the bulbs. But time has not been kind to the structure. What nature creates though can be enduring.
I am reminded that much I have created is broken. Busted. Currently unusable. Its present state is for the most part, trash. But that which I planted and watered then freely allowed to grow. Continues. Left idle for seasons, it returns to me as lovely as ever. Who I am lingers. Always. Beauty for the trash heap. The ashes.
