Dandelions
Dandelions.
It was always about dandelions.
A dandelion soul, a flower crown atop caramel curls, a spinning blur in a white dress. A wide-toothed smile and golden eyes that made you feel like you were staring into a never-ending sunset.
Dandelions.
She plucked the yellow plant from the soil and turned it between her fingers, rolling her eyes at how this wannabe flower received so much attention for being a symbol of simplicity and beauty, when really, it was just a weed.
An invasive form of life that found itself in places it didn’t belong. A nuisance to anyone who knew what it really was.
She laughed as she thought about the framed photo of her on the living room mantle, just a nine-year-old little seedling sitting on the back porch. She used to love the dandelions. It was her own mother who told her about these free yellow spirits, going where they please. It was her own mother who braided the dandelion stems into a crown and laid it atop her daughter’s hair.
She was told to feel the soft texture of the yellow petals, to run her tiny fingers up and down the stem, to hold the feather-like flower in her hand and believe that something so light and airy could have so much weight. That something so innocent could have a mind of its own and a world it intended to explore.
She wished she could be as beautiful and soft and innocent as the dandelion sitting in her palm. She stared at it with admiration and a hint of jealousy. She was once that free spirit in a cotton dress, but that was before.
Before she knew that the earth was not always as soft as the soil it blanketed itself in. Before she knew that rocks and stones could sometimes hit you, and sticks could often trip you, and every now and again you bled from the very elements you once found comfort in.
She loved the earth.
She thought the earth was beautiful, and she knew that all Mother Nature’s mishaps would be forgiven with a simple journey around the sun.
But the dandelion? She didn’t think that was beautiful. Not in the slightest. Not anymore.
Her mother told her the prettiest girls are the ones who find happiness in dandelion flower crowns.
Her eyelids fluttered down, and with a huffed breath, she squeezed the dandelion in her palm until her veins and bones melted it into a warm yellow ball. She rolled the soggy petals between her thumb and middle finger, until they too rolled into mini balls and fell to the ground.
Thorns. Burgundy roses. Poisonous berries. Tight twisted ivy. Prickers in the bush and splinters on the porch.
She was all of those things.
She knew it, and she loved it.
Her sensible nature and endless curiosity led her to a life full of exploration and pain, tied with love and independence. She wore not a soft halo of dandelions – but a sharp crown of thorns.
She loved to breathe, and all those who took a breath of her became immersed in her beauty.
A different kind of beauty. A knotted, raw, sometimes gentle but mostly fierce kind of beauty.
She knew her bruises. She knew if she picked up more dandelions and wore more dresses, she would attract a kinder species and live a life of simplicity her elders always spoke of. She knew if she stepped back and let Mother Nature run her course, she would have patience and understanding.
Crouching down, she picked up a triangular rock, shaped faintly like an arrow. She came to her feet and felt the sharp cool edges run across the bottom of her rough, burning hand. With a quick raise of her arm, she threw it as far as she could into the grassy field surrounding her like a hunter green lake, watching it soar and cut through the grey sky.
Sometimes she wished she didn’t have to control everything around her – the direction of her winds, the temperature of the skies, the colours of her world.
Sometimes she wished others could look at her and feel touched by her, soothed by her.
But she knew she was sharp. She had seen enough storms and drowned in enough seas to know that her crown of thorns was neither temporary nor removable. It was a permanent fixture nailed into her skull, and she wore it with pride.
One day, she would cross paths with someone who loved her crown too. Someone who loved it so much, they would braid sunflowers and daffodils around the thorns.
But never dandelions.