The Sunday Dandelion

I had to wait by the side of the highway for several minutes the other day to catch a ride to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah. I’m serving there right now with my husband in a small branch of Spanish-learning missionaries. I join them for their church services at 3 p.m. on Sunday afternoons and needed a ride from one of the other wives whose husband serves in the same branch. Thus my roadside epiphany.

For there at my feet, was a dandelion, a bright, yellow, smiling (or so it seemed to me) dandelion. Autumn has lingered longer than usual where I live and that little dandelion was growing so close to the ground. There had been no time for a long stem. While the sun is still somewhat warm during the days, the frost chills to the bone every night. I wondered as I waited. Then I realized I’m usually too much in a hurry to notice details about my surroundings or appreciate the simple beauties.

And with the sight of my very own, personal, right-at-my-feet dandelion, I began to marvel. Were there other stout dandelions still blooming in my yard? Were there solitary bees still out and about in my garden? Were there imprint stains of fallen leaves on my sidewalks from last week’s rain (one of my favorite kinds of art delivered directly by Mother Nature after a good rainstorm)? Usually I do not know because usually I do not see. I’m just in such a hurry.

Go here, be there. “Run, quickly now, or we will be late” is the mode of my life. But Sunday’s dandelion said to me, “Slow down, Marie. I’m blooming right here at your feet to help you remember that being in a hurry and being grateful cannot co-exist. You must stop, or at least slow down a bit, to see and hear and feel gratitude. It is impossible to appreciate while moving too fast through life, space, and time. Be still…”

So this next week (and maybe even the whole of November), in the midst of fixing meals for my family, watching football playoffs (one of my family’s favorite past times during this season), and hugging people I love, I’m going to watch out for more dandelion experiences. When I’m cleaning up from the meals, putting leftovers in the refrigerator, and picking up after our family gatherings, I am going to look for other “blooming dandelions” in my life.

This is the month of my youngest son’s birthday. He was born the morn after Halloween, a precious child who came to stay in our lives just a bit over two years before flying away like the helicopter seed tufts of a matured dandelion. Our last night’s kiss, a snuggly hug, and then in the quiet of sleep he drifted away caressed into heaven’s arms like the wind moves on a dandelion and takes away its fruit. He had had leukemia only 13 months when it was too much and so November has a sting to it, too, as I remember the golden child who never grew up and will never get old.

However, in its own way, such an experience makes all my other dandelions more precious. After Evan’s departure every good thing in my life seem bigger and brighter than it had before. Every friendly smile seems more precious to my eyes, every touch of love more dear to my skin, and every tear I shed more tender on my cheek. And so, when I look on my other children, I do it differently, with more love than I knew I could carry in my heart which also is vacant with grief.

I think I will notice the smile on my single sons’ faces (which might mean they have girls on their minds) and catch the wink of another son (which means he is flirting with his wife as he thinks on his upcoming fatherhood). I think I will cuddle up to my spouse and smell the scent that is his alone and hug my precious daughter-in-law with greater joy. I think I will go a bit slower and see, feel, and hear a bit more -- just during November, of course, because by December I must be abuzz again with activities, pressures, and responsibilities. Well, maybe if I learn my “dandelion” lesson, I will take those holidays slower, too.

One year, on the anniversary of Evan’s birth, someone anonymously left bright, blooming yellow flowers on our doorstep. How could they had known I had chosen yellow as my color for Evan. How would they have known that on that difficult Thanksgiving day, when he was so very sick, we ate our traditional meal in his hospital room after another kind friend had brought brilliant yellow napkins and a single yellow rosebud to grace our table? And so again and again dandelion yellow continues to teach me about healing and hope.

So this month, just for a bit, I will show my gratitude by smelling, looking, and hearing the joys of my life right around me. Thanks, my Sunday dandelion, for being there at the roadside and teaching me a better way, a grateful golden way of feeling joy with a freshened soul!

©2009 Marie Calder Ricks/www.houseoforder.com