Between the concrete cracks

Despite the hot sun beating down on us, spirits were high.

Our congregation was seated at long tables in a parking lot across from the synagogue.

We had gathered for morning service and were ending with a special Kiddush, a meal following a celebratory blessing and cup of wine. When a friendly caterer came by with frozen Klondike bars in tubs of ice, I watched some kids happily pluck them out.

Halfway through, we were joined by my friend, Nancy. She asked me how my recent move to South Philly had been. I loved living here, I told her, but I found the landscape to be denser, less green, and altogether, a little less inspiring. Nancy agreed. “It would be hard for me to live anywhere other than West Philly… because of the trees,” she said, rather thoughtfully.

Ah yes, the trees. After living in West Philly for three years and spending many evenings under the tree canopy of Clark Park, I missed seeing squirrels scamper up the thick tree branches just outside my window.

Nancy told me she felt comforted by the presence of plants, especially when she was spending time with other people. This intrigued me.

“What about now?” I asked, taking in the emptiness. In the parking lot, a few plants poked out between cracks in the pavement.

Nancy nodded, pointing to the weeds shooting up through the cracks, “When I see plants growing like that,” she said, “it tells me that life is permitted to grow here, and I find that even more meaningful.” 

I shifted my gaze to a tall lone weed glittering in the sunlight. The edges of its leaves curled, reaching up towards the sun.