Your Daily Miracle: Dandelions and all those Beautiful Weeds
Weeds. My yard is full of them--dandelions, little bobbly what-nots that nobody knows the name of, clover, even a strayed jonny-jump up. On my walks with Charley, I feel reassured that every other yard suffers from the same malady, and my "you're-a-bad-citizen" knot unwinds a little. It's early for weeds, but a week ago the weather turned warm and balmy, like July had just arrived like an unexpected (but not unwelcome) guest. The chard got leggy; the bean seeds germinated early; the tight yellow dandelions sighed into soft, puffy seed heads that scattered over the yard, and the neighbor's yard, and into my carefully-weeded garden beds.
Outside my front window, nothing looks neat anymore. The too-tall grass waves and bends over my unedged beds, and it only makes things worse that recently all my neighbors mowed their lawns into submission. My yard looks like the embarrassing aunt who doesn't wear a bra or shave her legs, smiling endearingly at several very uncomfortable, very presentable uncles in bow ties and waxed mustaches.
But here's the secret. My neighbor, Zoe of the bobbed hair and hot-pink boots, reminded me the other day when she twirled into my yard and carefully plucked a bouquet of dandelions. She held them up in her chubby fist with great pride. Her mother sighed and smiled--"Our house is full of dandelion bouquets," she said. "The thing is, they look so pretty when you pick them, but they don't last long in water." I watched Zoe prancing around my messy garden, and I remembered being a kid and the thrill of plucking a dandelion, how we used to hold the yellow ones under each other's chins, asking mysteriously, "Do you like butter?" If the dandelion reflected yellow on your friend's chin, then it was proof that your friend did, indeed, love butter. (To this day, I still don't understand that game--one, why does it matter to a kid if their friend loves butter, and two, doesn't everyone love butter?)
Of course the only thing better than a yellow dandelion was a perfectly spherical, perfectly wonderful seed head. You'd pick it oh-so-gently, hold it up to your lips, and give a mighty blow. If you could scatter a seed head in one puff, you were golden. Drop the mic and walk off the stage. Thank you, thank you. The only thing better than that was holding your breath through an epic tunnel or swimming the whole pool without coming up for air once. Kids really care about lung capacity, and the dandelion is perfect in that it combines aesthetics with physical delight. What rose or tulip can offer that?
So why is it, every spring and summer, I glove myself and go out to do battle with the dandelions? It has something to do with being an adult. Sadly. One more opportunity for wonder turned into a chore.
So the other day when I went for a walk with Charley, I turned my camera lens on weeds. Lots of weeds. And I found great delight, and great beauty, and a fresh appreciation. I also started to think about my life.
My life is busy. Like most American moms, it's packed with activities and juggling housework and 'real work' and appointments and homework. And I find that I begin to survey it, quantify it, pick it apart with an eye to efficiency, wondering where I can weed things out to give myself more time for the things that matter.
But here's the problem.
When I identify weeds and begin to yank them from my life with abandon in a desperate attempt to make the day "work" better or make schedules "go more smoothly," I find myself touchy, driven, crazy. I find myself yelling at the kids, especially the one who is singing a song she made up instead of finding socks: "Get your shoes on! Don't you know we'll be late? Don't you know YOU are making us late?!"
In my bid for efficiency, am I pulling and discarding the things that make my life beautiful, worthwhile, inherently valuable?
Are these moments my dandelions, my moments of wonder and beauty?
* tying my second grader's shoes (though they really should have learned how to do it by now) and using that moment to ask about her upcoming day
* lingering at the breakfast table with my husband (though it means my carefully ordered sequence of events--lunch-making, followed by x, followed by x will be disrupted)
* sitting in the car with my ten-year old while we wait for the bus, chatting about 'nothing,' instead of shoving her out the door so I can get started with 'my' morning earlier
* forgetting about the laundry and my dirty house to sit down and write this with a cup of tea
(If I just streamlined my life, I've thought, and kept to a better schedule, and if the kids clipped along at a more efficient pace, think of all I could accomplish! But then I might miss the wisteria rambling on the fence or. . .)
* taking my lunch with a good book instead of my phone
* putting off an 'urgent' task to go to coffee with a friend, and not checking the clock once
* snuggling with my 14-year old on the couch when she should be 'getting right to her homework'
* taking the dog for a long walk, not just for exercise or to fulfill a goal, but because we are both having such a lovely time
* letting the kids pull me down for one last hug at bedtime, one last kiss, one last secret. . .repeat and repeat
* staying up later than I should to finish a book, or write to a friend, or simply pillow talk with my spouse
Perhaps the weeds that I am so ready to pull in order to get on with a schedule or arrive on time or excise to make way for 'meaningful' work (work that pays, work that recognizes, work that affirms my ideas of success) are the blooming things that make my days beautiful, that builds relationships, that recognizes truth and goodness and the sacredness of all things.
Since my In Praise of Weeds Walk, I have tried to become more cognizant of my sight, of the things I filter out to "get to the point." Because like Zoe's bouquets of dandelions, the moments that matter most in my life are short, and pass quickly, and if I do not linger, blow away in the wind.
So today, look with the eyes of a child. See the back-alley weeds in your life, the ones sprouting from the cracked sidewalk cement, the ones surprising you with astounding color in your otherwise monochromatic
lawns. Catch your breath in wonder. Aren't they beautiful?
Outside my front window, nothing looks neat anymore. The too-tall grass waves and bends over my unedged beds, and it only makes things worse that recently all my neighbors mowed their lawns into submission. My yard looks like the embarrassing aunt who doesn't wear a bra or shave her legs, smiling endearingly at several very uncomfortable, very presentable uncles in bow ties and waxed mustaches.
But here's the secret. My neighbor, Zoe of the bobbed hair and hot-pink boots, reminded me the other day when she twirled into my yard and carefully plucked a bouquet of dandelions. She held them up in her chubby fist with great pride. Her mother sighed and smiled--"Our house is full of dandelion bouquets," she said. "The thing is, they look so pretty when you pick them, but they don't last long in water." I watched Zoe prancing around my messy garden, and I remembered being a kid and the thrill of plucking a dandelion, how we used to hold the yellow ones under each other's chins, asking mysteriously, "Do you like butter?" If the dandelion reflected yellow on your friend's chin, then it was proof that your friend did, indeed, love butter. (To this day, I still don't understand that game--one, why does it matter to a kid if their friend loves butter, and two, doesn't everyone love butter?) Of course the only thing better than a yellow dandelion was a perfectly spherical, perfectly wonderful seed head. You'd pick it oh-so-gently, hold it up to your lips, and give a mighty blow. If you could scatter a seed head in one puff, you were golden. Drop the mic and walk off the stage. Thank you, thank you. The only thing better than that was holding your breath through an epic tunnel or swimming the whole pool without coming up for air once. Kids really care about lung capacity, and the dandelion is perfect in that it combines aesthetics with physical delight. What rose or tulip can offer that?
So why is it, every spring and summer, I glove myself and go out to do battle with the dandelions? It has something to do with being an adult. Sadly. One more opportunity for wonder turned into a chore.
So the other day when I went for a walk with Charley, I turned my camera lens on weeds. Lots of weeds. And I found great delight, and great beauty, and a fresh appreciation. I also started to think about my life.My life is busy. Like most American moms, it's packed with activities and juggling housework and 'real work' and appointments and homework. And I find that I begin to survey it, quantify it, pick it apart with an eye to efficiency, wondering where I can weed things out to give myself more time for the things that matter.
But here's the problem.
When I identify weeds and begin to yank them from my life with abandon in a desperate attempt to make the day "work" better or make schedules "go more smoothly," I find myself touchy, driven, crazy. I find myself yelling at the kids, especially the one who is singing a song she made up instead of finding socks: "Get your shoes on! Don't you know we'll be late? Don't you know YOU are making us late?!"
In my bid for efficiency, am I pulling and discarding the things that make my life beautiful, worthwhile, inherently valuable?
Are these moments my dandelions, my moments of wonder and beauty?
* tying my second grader's shoes (though they really should have learned how to do it by now) and using that moment to ask about her upcoming day
* lingering at the breakfast table with my husband (though it means my carefully ordered sequence of events--lunch-making, followed by x, followed by x will be disrupted)
* sitting in the car with my ten-year old while we wait for the bus, chatting about 'nothing,' instead of shoving her out the door so I can get started with 'my' morning earlier
* forgetting about the laundry and my dirty house to sit down and write this with a cup of tea
(If I just streamlined my life, I've thought, and kept to a better schedule, and if the kids clipped along at a more efficient pace, think of all I could accomplish! But then I might miss the wisteria rambling on the fence or. . .)
* putting off an 'urgent' task to go to coffee with a friend, and not checking the clock once
* snuggling with my 14-year old on the couch when she should be 'getting right to her homework'
* taking the dog for a long walk, not just for exercise or to fulfill a goal, but because we are both having such a lovely time
* letting the kids pull me down for one last hug at bedtime, one last kiss, one last secret. . .repeat and repeat
* staying up later than I should to finish a book, or write to a friend, or simply pillow talk with my spouse
Perhaps the weeds that I am so ready to pull in order to get on with a schedule or arrive on time or excise to make way for 'meaningful' work (work that pays, work that recognizes, work that affirms my ideas of success) are the blooming things that make my days beautiful, that builds relationships, that recognizes truth and goodness and the sacredness of all things.
Since my In Praise of Weeds Walk, I have tried to become more cognizant of my sight, of the things I filter out to "get to the point." Because like Zoe's bouquets of dandelions, the moments that matter most in my life are short, and pass quickly, and if I do not linger, blow away in the wind.
So today, look with the eyes of a child. See the back-alley weeds in your life, the ones sprouting from the cracked sidewalk cement, the ones surprising you with astounding color in your otherwise monochromatic
lawns. Catch your breath in wonder. Aren't they beautiful?
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