Where the Wild Things Are

“If you see a dandelion as a weed, you’ll spray it. If you see it as a flower, you’ll draw it close, turn it this way and that, and become lost in the colossal burst of slender golden petals that spew sunshine into the darkest of souls. And so, how many things have we sprayed that could have illuminated our souls if we would have let them be more than what we let them be?”

― Craig D. Lounsbrough

On a stroll with my nana today, she remarked how pleased she was that they were tidying the sidewalks of the tufts of grass that had sprouted all about.

I remained mute.

Personally I was devastated.

And only just the other at the psychiatric hospital where I was a patient stood a solemn bench blessed by a carpet of luscious dandelions. And how I loved sitting on that bench.

My little slice of wonder while on the other field artificial grass. So soulless. Adored by most of my 'inmates' for them to take their afternoon naps. But me, no. I loved my square field of unadulterated wild blossoms and relentless aboundness.

For you see, it is this that gives me hope. Grasses covered in soil nourishing clover. Dandelions growing wild and uncontested on any verdant green field that would have them...

It was not long of course and the grass cutters came to the psychiatric ward and my small patch of dandelions was reduced to a plain and flat and orderly square of grass. Neat. Dismal. So very sad. I almost wept. The spring they had promised, awakened in me, gone.

But I take heart, you see, for dandelions are famous for their relentless roots and keep cropping up, no matter how many times you might attempt to rid a lawn of them.

Such is the wild. That gives me hope. It thrives. So very often in spite of us. In spite of our concrete jungles and sky rise after sky rise and tarmac and 'new developments'.

It must find a way to keep on going.

And only earlier, walking around my nan's complex, her friend's garden prolific in nasturtiums grown utterly beyond reckoning, dwarfing all around them. They were quite simply glorious. All aflame.

Yes. Nature is a wondrous thing. I even find myself smitten by the dove that insists on walking casually into my gran's home only to peck a little and leave out the front door just as casually as it came. Regularly.

Are there not more marvellous wonders? I find it hardpressed to believe as nature simply persists without detterence...

When the bees swarm and collect from the bushy lavender on my nana's porch... When a ladybug alights on your finger... When you take a dip only to find a shimmering winged dragonfly all the nearer....

I want nature to sprout out through the cracks in the concrete. I want to one day witness for myself bonsais that cling to cliff edges for all it would appear they seek certain death. I long to one day taste the fruit of the Taroco, the most prized of all Sicilian oranges for its red pulp... I want to pick the fruit of prolific gooseberry bushes in the summer. I crave the weed. The thriving in spite. The underdog.

But most of all, I want to banish all meticulous lawns without any need for grooming. Growing wild in undergrowth... Paved instead in clover and pennyroyal and mint and dandelions... My favourite, the dandelion. The yellow star. The tooth of the lion as its French etymology reveals...

Not, no please... No destruction.

For do not clovers feed and love the soil?

For do not dandelions offer their sweet blossoms to the bees and offer balls of whispering wishes for young children?

For do not the nasturtiums add such a glorious brightness to any garden, never mind their edible leaves and flowers?

While the humble nettle rich in vitamins A, C and K, as well as several B vitamins and minerals calcium, iron, magnesium, phosphorus, potassium and sodium... Even Ancient Egyptians used stinging nettle to treat arthritis and lower back pain, while Roman troops rubbed it on themselves to help stay warm.

Now I'm not dissuading that you abandon your roses, or pretty pansies or prized orchids or amaryllis bulbs or prized lemon tree or any of the sort. But consider too, the joys to be found when you work on a sidewalk, or past an unruly garden and truly find both sidewalk and garden magical beyond imagination.

I do.

And as I have come slowly to appreciate the wild and unfurling all the more as I age, perhaps as I mature, or simply fall in love with the beauty in all things, please try. Look on it anew, with fresh eyes, for the persistent. That which grows without permission. In our stone cold cities. Flourishing. Abundant. And so very giving.

Girl picking clover by Winslow Homer