In Silent Meditation

In Deference to Dandelions

We live in a schizophrenic world. It is impossible to reach the end of any day without the need to multi-task, to pile duty upon responsibility. On the one hand, we are bombarded by media messages that we are not good enough if we don’t achieve a certain level of financial success, weight loss or a wrinkle-free existence. On the other hand, we are reminded almost daily that we should “stop and smell the roses.”  Often, we are left frazzled and confused – when are we to smell these roses, and more importantly, where are we to find them?  Many of us are bemused by the assertion that we have access to said roses when we can’t even leave the freeway of daily life long enough to fill the tank with the gas we’re working so hard to afford. Who has time to water the roses?  Mine died a week after I put them in the ground.  Roses are accessible to a privileged few. Perhaps the rest of us need a different metaphor.

I contend that we should consider the dandelion. I once heard a woman named Zsuzanna (Z.) Budapest say that the dandelion should be the official flower of the women’s spiritual movement. Like the women who struggled to gain a voice, this buttery beauty is often misunderstood. While my friend Z. was concerned with the spiritual plight of disenfranchised women, I think that the dandelion is a great symbol for the people – both male and female – who bring an organic, natural and constant beauty into a world that is in perpetual flux.

Lovers of lush lawns often believe that the dapper dandelion is a weed. Those who wistfully wish for the verdant velvet of grass beneath their bare toes are sometimes disturbed by the punctuation of yellow-heads. I, on the other hand, love them.  The dandelion is not a desert plant, but neither are the imported water-guzzling lawns she likes to populate. No matter where the dandelion is transplanted, she takes hold with vigor.  To the aficionado of well-groomed lawns and patio furniture upon close-cropped grass, the dandelion is an enemy. It is a plant to be contended with, killed or otherwise dispersed until the next riot of yellow amasses against the establishment of landscaped perfection.

Unlike the rose, the dandelion has no thorns.  It is smooth and simple, never to be distrusted. Dandelions will grow anyplace.  Quietly, without the assistance of human hands, they flourish with little bravado, but much notice. Like those of us who work hard for a living, those who handle the tasks that some folks may not even realize must be done, the dandelion is a survivor. They cannot be stopped.  For every dandelion killed, a thousand others float upon the wind. A generation may lose ground, but the species continues uninhibited.  Dandelions are free. They need no one to plant them, to nurture them or to force them into propagation. When their time comes, they dance upon the wind and toss their children to the earth, where soils blanket them with love.

Dandelions are loving siblings. Their roots are not too deep to accept change.  Underground, they hold hands, extending their reach even to the outer circle.  There are no homeless dandelions, no friendless yellow-tops.  Dandelions are nurturing.  We can eat them.  They are gift from Mother Earth.  Even as they reach to one another beneath the rich, cool soil, they reach to us.  They can be wine, they can be salad.  They smell nice and their brilliant gold will brighten up the day like a drop of sunshine fallen to the earth.

Dandelions.  Like them, we must be flexible and open to change.  Like them, we must hold hands and extend our friendship to one another.  Like them, we must dance upon the wind and toss our loving to the world, dedicate our children to God’s good green earth.  Like them, we must accept the nurturing of God, so that we may learn to nurture our own and others, even as they do.  Dandelions.  They should be the newest symbol of Hope.

DAN-

DELIONS

the dandelion

is yellow, is soft

like butter on your chin

she is the fluffy thing you can

hold in your hands on any summer

day.  And when she is done, she

will send out little angels to float

like clouds upon the warm

and gentle winds.  Dande-

l

i

o

n

.

s

h

e

is our sister.

                                                                                                                                           Poem © March 1991

                                                                                                                                           Suzanne Jacobson