There is a sunflower growing along my walking path to work in the Bronx.

Not in a garden. Not in some carefully curated patch of soil. No. This sunflower has apparently decided that a tiny crack in the middle of a concrete sidewalk is an entirely reasonable place to build a life.

And every morning, I notice it.

It often looks like it’s searching for the sun, slowly orienting itself toward whatever light it can find. Sometimes it seems to be facing the wrong direction entirely.

I understand.

Because how often do we spend our lives doing exactly that? Turning our heads, shifting our bodies, recalibrating ourselves, wondering, Is this where the light is? Am I going the right way?

Meanwhile, the sunflower is standing there in the Bronx like, “Listen, I didn’t choose the concrete. I just decided to grow here.”

And honestly, I find that profoundly moving.

Especially because sunflowers are one of my favorites. They are basically the extroverts of the flower world being bright, unapologetic, slightly ridiculous, and determined to look for the sun.

So what is this one doing in a tiny patch of concrete?

Maybe the better question is. What are any of us doing in the places we didn’t expect to find ourselves?

Still growing, apparently.

Still looking for the light.

Even when we’re not entirely sure which direction it’s coming from.