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Two years ago I first noticed them: a bright spot on my morning’s commute to work, a sturdy bunch of orange-gold California poppies growing in a triangle of gravel at the entrance to the 110 freeway.
I appreciated them so much that one day, while stopped at the stop sign with no one behind me, I delayed my journey by taking a couple of photos out the car window. I was in awe of the flowers’ resilience. My goodness, how could they manage to grow in that bleak spot? I thought about them throughout the year, long after they were gone, and rejoiced at their return the following spring. They reminded me of a plaque I had hung in my college dorm room decades ago: “Bloom where you are planted.”
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