Let's Be Dandelions

 The dandelions with their full-blown seed heads that crowded the roadside reminded me of the protesters/protectors who lined the street at a protest that we had just attended.

We are the dandelions sprouting in every crack, spreading our seeds far and wide. Dandelion seeds are not fragile. They will sprout wherever they land. If need be, they lie dormant in the soil for years and years until it is time to grow. And grow they will. Even if the seed falls in a not-quite hospitable place it will eventually grow into a deep-rooted dandelion that will be difficult to kill.

Be a dandelion. Dig deep roots and trust that your seeds (words, ideas) will eventually grow even in an infertile place. Be medicine for the World. Nourish others. Be beautiful. Be bold. Spread many seeds.

Dandelions.

Because she starts out speaking about dandelions and moves into writing about how to be resilient in chaotic times, I want to share a recent post at the Druid's Garden blog.

Singing

 

We sing to the rising Sun

  in gratitude.

Although it shines as brightly

 when we don't.

It does not demand our praise and

gratitude. It shines on all

equally, regardless.

   We give praise and gratitude

so we remember, 

so we sing,

so we praise, 

that we may not forget.

Singing to the Sun lifts us,

fills us with light.

As we sing,

we rise.

As we rise,

we sing

and are one Light with the Sun.

We start the Day Singing,

singing, singing....

(An impressionistic/abstract photo of me in my green robe greeting the rising Sun)

comfort comes in small packages

 

A few years ago I acquired this nice little tweed jacket. The lining was ripped and the former owner had left a few cigarette burn holes. I decided it would make a nice garden jacket. No reason I shouldn't look classy in the garden.

When I first wore it this spring, I stuck my hand in one pocket and found this little acorn that I had put in there sometime last year. It has been oddly comforting to put my hand in the pocket and feel the smooth roundness of the little acorn. So it stays.

Later, when the weather demanded heavier gear so I wore my work coat, I found more little acorns in the garden as I weeded. They likely came in with the chipped wood mulch on our paths. A few of those went into my coat pockets. 

We're working hard to get our home and 30 acres ready to sell in another month or so. I imagine myself finding these acorns in my pockets as I work in some future garden. Maybe they'll bring me some comfort as I feel the smooth, hard shells... or a sense of nostalgia. 

Taking something from our home of 18 years, like these little acorns, into our next phase of residency brings a sense of continuity, which I find comforting. Some of the plants also will follow us, even though I might be able to buy the same species later, continuity comforts me. A few of these plants were first planted at my previous home, and some -- like the fragrant purple iris -- came from my childhood home.

My residence will change, but the sense of safety, security and Home will follow in these small ways, as long as my heart is full and open. I've gone through waves of grief about leaving, waves of anxiety about the future, and waves of peace. Right now I'm feeling eager to finish to work here and move on.

But things won't move as quickly as I'd like.

That's ok. It gives me more time to Be Here.

Bloom!

 The woods around our house is punctuated by masses of red-purple blooms. The eastern redbud trees are in bloom.

Each day I gather handfuls of their blossoms to toss into my daily salad. They won't last long so I try to take advantage while they are in bloom. The flowers add bright color to my salads and whatever else I decide to garnish with them. Their mild pea-like flavor doesn't carry through all the other flavors, but I bet my tastebuds still know they are there -- my eyes certainly do.

I also have been gathering chickweed, my favorite spring forage. It grows fast and I'd like to cut lots of it to make salad and to put in the freezer as a pesto. I have never been able to harvest enough for the pesto, but this year the strawberry patch hosts quite an abundance... if only I can get it cut before it all flowers.

Nettles also top my list of forages. My nettle patches are growing fast. If I cut them frequently enough I can harvest through most of June. We steam the highly nutritious greens and pack them into serving-size ball, then freeze them on a cookie sheet. Once they're thoroughly frozen, we put them in freezer bags so we can eat the nutritious greens almost until springtime.

But I have so much else to do right now that it's difficult to make enough time to forage these delights. I am not putting in a full garden this year. Instead, we're going to sell our little farm in a couple of months, or less, and are working tirelessly (well not so tirelessly) getting the place in order, sorting through our stuff, donating it, selling it, packing it to take with us. The past couple of weeks have largely been spent outdoors getting things tidied, jobs that we'd spend all spring and summer doing that must be done in our to six weeks.

I won't go into the emotional roller coaster I've been on, which has been ramped up due to the political situation. Later, when I feel more grounded and certain of my future. Until then, I'm gathering handfuls of redbud blossoms and enjoying Spring.

And We Rise

 Spring rushes in on gusts of high wind, taking the world by storm, giggling as She comes.

Warm, warm weather... 80 degrees F. yesterday. Today began warm and lovely, but it didn't stay that way for long. We're in for a blustery, chilly night of wind-driven snow. Spring has a mean sense of humor.

A couple of weeks ago these daffodil leaves erupted from their bulbs in the earth, pushing aside the chipped wood mulch in their eagerness to bloom. 

Yellow crocus and winter aconite, as always, were the first to bloom. Is it by some design that the first blossoms of spring are sunny yellow?

Then came the purple crocus and rock iris, now white crocus. I was going to write and post photos of the early blooms, but Spring races in. I procrastinate a few days and now the garden is lit up by 

Daffodils!

The clump of large leaves nest to this sunny group of daffodils makes it clear that tulips won't be too far behind. 

All of this exuberance is testimony to the the resilience of the bulbs and roots that lie beneath the soil resting and gathering strength, perhaps even growing and multiplying through the winter.

Winter always ends. Spring always comes, no matter how harsh the winter. The roots and bulbs know how to survive. Then the leaves emerge and winter is vanquished. More roots and bulbs push out green; seeds sprout; trees also bloom and sprout leaves.

The greening of spring occurs because of the hidden strength beneath the surface. 

Winter's End

Day's end; winter's end

This morning I walked into our sun room and the first thing I saw was two walking iris blooms beginning to unfold. They were fully open about 10 minutes later.

I went out for my morning walk and the birds were busy singing love songs. Crocus leaves that had grown two inches tall before the snow a week ago still stood tall and perfectly green. Tips of daffodil leaves just emerging remained green. 

This was a bitter, cold, snowy, harsh week. 

But today the air was much warmer. The sun shone brightly all day. As I sang to the rising sun my heart expanded, everything lifted.

This evening, most of the snow is gone and the upcoming week promises to be pleasantly warm.

Winter is coming to an end. No matter how bitter it has been, winter always ends.

Winter always ends.

Everything ends.

Today I feel good. Hopeful.

The next few months will be busy, sometimes difficult, as we push our plans up and get ready to move. I don't feel sad. I feel energized -- at this moment at least -- to have finally and positively made that decision. I can focus.

Everything ends.

Winter, however bitter, always ends.

Resist

 A few days ago I walked into the "plant room" with the morning's brew in hand and found this blossom unfolding. I went back 10 minutes later and it had opened to this, it's full glory, shining in the gray, pale light coming through the windows. 

By sundown, the blossom was shriveled and done. The small blooms of the walking iris don't last long, but the plant blooms in early February, when I hunger for color. And more blooms will open.

For one more day I resist despair that winter will not end.

Tips of daffodil leaves, a little yellow from the cold, push their way up, seeking light. Crocus leaves rise a few inches from the soil, like tiny thin fists of resistance. Cold air and gray skies cannot keep them asleep. And I resist the winter light by knowing that bright yellow, vivid purple, and blinding white blossoms will soon appear. 

Winter does not last forever. Its end is coming. 

Stand up in resistance to the cold and gray. Turn your face in the direction of the Sun. Resist that urge to remain curled up beneath the soil. Stand up and...

Blossom.