A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except for learning how to grow in rows.
Loving dandelions feels like a revolutionary act.
People in the suburbs don’t like them. There are whole aisles of the hardware store dedicated to their eradication. You could be “that neighbour” if you let them take over your yard. People in the cities rarely see them. The administrators of parks are quick to squelch any appearance of the sunny yellow flowers.
Still. I love them.
I love their hardy nature. I love that they are one of the first flowers in spring and one of the last to surrender to the chill of autumn. They survive Seattle’s summer drought. And our winter rains.
They are wild things. They colour outside the lines. Maybe that is why children are drawn to them.
The magic and wonder that surrounds a dandelion puff ball is undeniable. When we were kids, we searched for the perfect globe of seeds, eagerly plucking and blowing on them to send our wishes into the wind. Quickly, before an adult could admonish us. Something about scattering weeds – blah, blah, blah.
(Okay, maybe I still do.)
Imagine it – you hold one in your hand right now. No one will judge. What do you wish for?