I need to see something grow. Something green and honest and healthy. Something unique and precious.
On my way to work I drive past a business park. With the leaves all gone and roads stained with salt, what a sore it is on the landscape. A festering infection of commerce and materialism. Big box stores, chain restaurants, traffic lights: a scourge that feeds on need and greed. And the cars go. Stop. Go.
There on the crest of the hill, a little brick office building has been minding its own business for twenty years. Suddenly, a monstrosity of sheet metal and plexi-glass has sprung up right next to it, close enough to touch. Close enough to block out the light. It's square and ugly in a What The Hell Is That kind of way. It's a pustule on the bony shoulder of the city. It even has the audacity to be orange. The sign says Metro Self Storage.
I wouldn't store my Self there.
I'd prefer an Adirondack chair in my back yard. Or, better yet, on the shore. As long as my kids can play nearby, and I can listen to their voices, close my eyes in the sunshine and just be grateful for a little while.