Roadside Revelations

 I drive almost two hours every day, back and forth to work. Some people get a bug-eyed expression on their face when they learn this, and then it melts into a sympathetic look. That isn't really necessary, because although the drive sometimes sucks, I am lucky to have an exceptional job.

I've also found that my morning commute can sometimes border on a spiritual experience. That's not because of the chick-lit I am usually listening to on Overdrive, but because of the natural beauty of this stretch of highway I must traverse.

Sometimes the way is clear until I reach a low place between the mountains, and then I see that fog is nestled into the valley like a white cat stretched out in a cozy crevice. Before the farmer plows his cover crop at milepost 160, the fields on one side stretch out in an impossibly vivid shade of green that makes my eyes thirsty. I want to pull over and drink in the rolls of those gentle hills punctuated by navy blue and silver silos.

Recently, as it is now June, the chicory has begun to bloom. When the chicory blooms, it feels as if summer has truly arrived.

Growing up, we always called these roadside flowers "cornflowers," but I learned later in life that we were wrong. Cornflowers, from which that lovely shade of blue was derived, are a different type of plant. Chicory is basically an edible weed, and it grows leggy and scraggly on the roadside before bursting into velvety bluish-purple flowers at this time of year. They look like little daisies, but they are this color that seems impossible in nature -- until it is in front of me.

There's one place along my northbound morning commute where both sides of the interstate are lousy with chicory. The plants stand like sentries crowded together to usher cars around the curve. And when I reach a spot just before passing these plants, they catch the rays of the morning sun in a way that makes the blossoms glow. They are like a cluster of cornflower-blue holiday lights strung among the greenery.

POW. They glow. I stare as long as I safely can, and then I smile. Then they are gone until tomorrow. And soon, they will be gone until next year.