Sweet Weeds

Chronicles of an American Yogi

Early childhood memory: My neighbor (the dad) came running into my yard completely enraged! I could practically see the steam coming off his head before I even knew that was a thing. Generally, he was a pretty relaxed guy but this day he was fuming and all because I was making a wish.

To me, it was a perfectly delightful moment. I was still solidly connected to nature and the magic that it provided. And there was nothing that compared to the wonder of watching those tender little seeds taking flight. Each one represented an opportunity, a chance to have my wish realized.

But that all changed in a flash as he stood trembling with rage right in front of my face and screamed at the top of his lungs, “STOP BLOWING THOSE SEEDS ALL AROUND!” To say I didn’t understand would be an understatement. “But I’m making a wish,” I replied. I think I also said something about how pretty the flowers were since he shouted back, “THOSE AREN’T FLOWERS, THEY ARE WEEDS!”

And just like that, things changed. I was deeply confused and embarrassed. Up until then, I had loved dandelions with their sunny disposition. But afterwards, I felt ignorant and quite foolish. It was obvious I did not know how the world was run.

Fast forward thirty years when I attended a workshop centered on communicating with the fairy realm. The presenter was Irish heritage and deeply rooted in the ancient ways. Her presence was astounding and her words rang true and awakened some latent memories in me.

On our last morning together, she asked that we take our journals and go outside to walk the sacred grounds around the retreat center. She suggested we didn’t have an agenda, but instead just see what we came upon. It was a beautiful spring day, the sun had gained strength and felt warm and golden shining on my skin.

I entered a grove of trees that I had yet explored. A variety of greens covered the landscape from new grass to moss to lichen on the rocks and trees. And as I came around a bend, there was the very tallest dandelion I had ever seen. It was up to my waist line, sprouting its brilliant yellow petals towards the sun. The stalk upon which it grew was wide and sturdy as it swayed in the gentle breeze.

I sat near the colossal flower with its bright sunny face and in my mind I asked to talk to the fairy who was its guardian. Immediately I heard loud and clearly, “We are flowers, not weeds.” I flashed back to my front yard that long-ago day and felt redeemed. My neighbor had been mistaken but still it had taken a toll on me.

I remembered that was when I started to forget.

I had stopped going outside so much. I stopped imagining and being playful. I stopped pretending and being creative. Instead I became a chameleon. I watched what others did and followed along. I didn’t want to get in trouble and I definitely did not want to get yelled at again. So I stopped connecting to myself and to nature for a bunch of decades.

Yet finally I had made peace with the dandelions. They understood better than I how necessary it was for me to adapt to the world view at that time. It was a matter of survival. But things have changed and now I know more. Magic is real and present every day. Fairies are the consciousness of nature that brings it alive in every moment. I see and acknowledge the beauty that surrounds me and have come home to myself once again.