The Discipline of Daisies

"Justice requires us to remember: when any citizen denies his fellow, saying: 'His color is not mine or his beliefs are strange and different,' in that moment he betrays America." —Lyndon B. Johnson, 36th President of the United States

The meadowlarks called across Cherry Creek Reservoir as Aden and I pedaled through the morning quiet, our bike tires humming against asphalt still cool from the night. Golden sunflowers stood sentinel along the path, their bright heads tracking eastward like compass needles seeking magnetic north, and children laughed as they skipped in and out of the swim beach's gentle ripples. For the hundredth time, I found myself mesmerized by phototropism—that miraculous directional growth of plants toward light—a ritual that never fails to restore something essential in me.

Each spring, I fill the concrete planters on our breezeway with bright annuals, then spend the following months watching them dance in slow-motion as they orient to the changing sunlight. This year, orange daisies have become my teachers: the front pot's blooms crane straight leftward to capture dawn's first rays, while those tucked behind the house have stretched out and away on impossibly long stems, their faces twisted toward evening's last gleaming. Every time I pass their vibrant orange faces, they whisper the same urgent reminder: turn toward the light, speak only words that motivate and uplift.

Yet national events of recent weeks have rendered such acts of positivity nearly impossible. The weight of what we've witnessed—the betrayal of foundational principles, the casual cruelty masquerading as policy—sits heavy in my chest like stones I cannot dislodge. I don't feel much like celebrating this Fourth of July, though my love for this country burns as fiercely as summer sunlight.

On this Fourth we'll escape to the mountains, seeking solace in the quiet chill of alpine morning where robins wake the world with liquid songs and wildflowers unfurl their petals in defiant beauty. Perhaps we need to pretend, just for a day, that redemption remains as simple as turning toward the light and helping our neighbors do the same. Perhaps that pretending isn't naive optimism but essential practice—the daily discipline of choosing hope when despair feels more honest, of nurturing the small flames that might, collectively, illuminate our way forward.

The sunflowers don't debate their purpose or question whether their faithful tracking matters. They simply turn, again and again, toward whatever light they can find. On this Independence Day, maybe that's enough—to be like them, bending toward whatever brightness remains, trusting that our collective reaching might yet pull us from this long shadow toward something worthy of celebration.