Dandelion Joy
For as long as I can remember, I have loved dandelions. I would pick them into small bouquets and bury my nose in them always disappointed that they never smelled as divine as I thought they should. I thought they should smell like strawberry lemonade or cotton candy; two tastes I had only had once as a special treat. I didn’t understand why my hands were sticky with the strange milk that dripped out of the stems. The sensation distracted me from the joy I felt holding my bunch of dandelions. Yet despite these sensory disappointments, I would continue to pick them thinking that I was holding magic in my hands.
I would put them in a small yogurt container of water placed on my desk. In the morning their bright shouty heads would be drooped over the edge of the container. A bewildering sight to wake up to when I was expecting a burst of joy that I had closed my eyes to. After several failed attempts to preserve them for longer than a few hours, I slowly realized that collecting them and bringing them in side ruined them. Dandelions weren’t like other flowers. They needed to stay in the wild. I began to love dandelions a little bit more because they couldn’t be tamed, they rooted where they wanted, and they thrived in unlikely places.
As a child, I was frequently admonished for picking dandelion puffs and blowing them in the wind, so I resorted to gently kicking them with my toe to watch them scatter. I didn’t care that they were “weeds,” that they ruined the lawn, or that scattering the spores would cause them to multiply. The world needs more dandelions. When no one was watching, I would pick the puffs and gently blow on them delighting in the way the spores drifted in the wind. I continued to do this as a teenager and young adult despite the same admonishments from friends and boyfriends. I wonder now if it was my unconscious way of regulating my nervous system—to scan my environment, find something that brought me joy, and give into the pleasure of the moment by gently exhaling. It seems like a reasonable way to deal with the anxiety and perpetual overwhelm I felt throughout most of my life that I didn’t quite belong.
I loved watching my children run with them checking over their shoulders as the spores got higher and higher. I loved watching their tiny, chubby cheeks fill with air as they practiced blowing slowly and steadily. The joy of watching them delight in dandelions on our walks with the dog was soul restorative. There were three of us, a tiny tribe of urban explorers seeking out joy.
A few years ago, I started researching the symbolism of dandelions because I thought there had to be some reason I was drawn to them. They seemed to be an apt symbol for me, as someone who felt on the outside and looked at things from a different perspective. Here I was loving a weed that most people were trying to destroy with poisons or dig out of there lawn. Here I was cheering for them growing the cracks of the sidewalk. Here I was the seemingly out of place flower in the vast expanse of lawn.
What I discovered was that dandelions are the symbol of perseverance and resilience. They thrive in poor soil, cracks in the concrete, after getting their heads lopped off by a lawn mower, after getting yanked out, and after getting poisoned. Their roots run deep and that is the source of their strength for overcoming adversity. The yellow flower represents the sun and puff the moon reminding us that time is always cycling. There is always a chance to begin again and periods of light and darkness are needed for growth. Blowing on the puff ball is a chance to scatter my wishes and dreams out into the universe.
There was something comforting about realizing that the flower I loved the most is a good symbol of who I am in the world. I have continued to rise after much adversity and many setbacks. I have placed down deep roots to remain present in challenging circumstances. I am still full of hope that there will something better for me. I liked imagining all of ideas I had shared at conferences, all of the classes I had taught, and all of the conversations I had had as the dandelion spores. I blow hope into my words, and while I didn’t know where they will land, I choose to believe that they will thrive in the unlikeliest of places.
Several years ago, I chattered on about my love of dandelions to a man I loved deeply. He listened to me fully and didn’t judge or mock my enthusiasm for the flower. For Christmas, he had a necklace made for me with two dandelion spores in resin. I felt seen in that moment. The beauty of it brought me to tears and the tenderness and thoughtfulness in the gift still catches in the back of my throat. I wore the necklace to my PhD defence and touched it when I felt overwhelmed with the questions I was being asked to remind myself that I am resilient and full of hope. Years later, I wore it when I gave my first public lecture to remind myself that I had deep roots in my research and I knew what I was talking about.
Last week, I noticed a rogue dandelion rising above the plants by my front door, as if straining to get right in my sightline. “Here I am!” It shouted at me from nearly three feet above the pavement as this bold reminder of whom I am as I stand on the literal threshold of my door, but also on the threshold of something new because my place had sold the night before. The dandelion had found me right when I needed the reminder most that I am both resilient and full of hope; my roots are deep and I will continue to thrive.