The jacaranda trees are showing off again in Southern California, being themselves, being gorgeous, taking compliments, blushing not-so-shyly in the canopy.

Their flowers are the thing, standouts, showoffs, conspicuousities — large proud panicles of purple or blue, fine five-lobed corollas.

This is just what the jacaranda do each spring, show off the essence of their essential essence, parade their blue-purple — be — exist as they are, with aspirations to be very precisely themselves. They carpet the areas under themselves in their color, mirroring their splendor on the ground. One is not enough, of their exact selves.

We might do well to follow suit in precisely their fashion. Some of us aspire too much to other than what we are. We are purple; we long for red. We are blue; we want green.

There is much to be said for being what we are, fully, unreservedly, not shyly, not longingly, no eye cast jealously toward colors below, above, to the side — simply, breath-takingly us!

What are you? Normal, boring, no standout, a plodder, a wall flower, an average citizen, a good joe, an average Jane — not blue ribbon?

No, you are more than that.

The self-possessed average-ordinary — always casting the ubiquitous dumb-blind-stare of stupid inferiority within the canopy of their ever-present shadow of insane insecurity — they are more than they know.

The inveterately comparative — those ever casting the elusive and wistful glance of they-seem-more-educated, she-is-more beautiful, he-is-taller-and-stronger — these know not who they are.

Each self is a jacaranda of a different color, a gorgeous conspicuousity, a standout in the canopy, casting its own color on the ground below, existing as nothing less than what it is, particularly purple, yellow or green, nothing less, nothing more, nothing else needed — to be beautiful.

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