Dandelions

The neighbors have an entire back yard of dandelions. A huge field of bright yellow flowers, green leaves shining over the dry grass. I love dandelions, I always have. Most people view them as weeds, I know. Of course one person’s weed is another person’s flower. (We have a debate going here, wild violas grow everywhere. I put them in the garden. My ex-boss thought they were weeds.) I will agree that most people don’t think of dandelions as garden flowers. I am not here to argue that point one way or the other.

Dandelions are remarkable. I thought about that as I looked at the brown grass in the neighbor’s yard. Three days of hot weather and the grass is pretty much gone. It doesn’t tolerate the heat or the dry weather  well, and even if you water it, often it doesn’t return until the first soft brush of autumn. What caught my eye were those bright yellow flowers and the deep green of the leaves amidst all that brown. They are there, growing strong, where nothing else can survive. It made me think of all the times I have seen dandelions in waste land, places where nothing else grows, but they are there, offering the surprising gift of color, of life, when all else is gone.

For me there is something magical about dandelions. They start out like all flowers, small green plants bursting from the soil. Then bloom their bright yellow blooms, small suns on the land. Finally, before they go, they become balls of magical seeds that can slip free and float through the air like tiny creatures, seeking a new home—a new place to bring strength and that bright sunlit flower.

Dandelions give me hope. They persevere despite every attempt to eradicate them, survive where nothing else can, bring color to a colorless landscape and become magical fairies as their flower fades. I want to be like that, strong when there seems no place to find life, a small sun burning in my heart and when I begin to fade, drifting on the wind like a magical creature. 

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