I love to go on walks, especially long rambling ones out amid nature. Walking on a track or treadmill is no fun, it sparks no magic. It’s great for exercise, but not so nourishing for the soul. So I walk on the 55 acre festival site where I work, or on the trails that connect the various neighborhoods in my master planned community. I used to walk at Lake Brownwood, when my Pop lived there, when I am particularly blessed I find myself walking on a beach or sea wall. During today’s walk, I passed so many yellow dandelions! And I remembered…
When I was a child, we kids still roamed freely in our neighborhoods, without parental supervision. There were no tracking apps to keep us on the radar. We played at neighbors’ houses until the sun started to go down, then listened for our parents to call us home. We walked to school- no moms or dads- just kids that met each other along the way and joined up to make the trek to school in laughing clumps. Since I am, and always have been, a quiet girl, my clumps of friends might only be three or four girls, but we laughed as much as any larger group. At least, they did. I just breathed little huffs of laughter- nothing to bring attention to myself.
On the corner of our street in a Dallas suburb, there was an empty lot. In early spring, a season of soft blue Texas skies and crisp mornings, this lot was bright with abundant dandelions. You may be cringing at the very word, especially if you’re a gardener or if you grow a perfectly manicured lawn of St. Augustine grass, but I happen to believe dandelions are magic.
When the dandelions were bright yellow flowers, they were inhabited by “tickle bees.” I don’t know what they are really called, but that’s what we called them. We left our houses a few minutes early so that we could spend a few minutes hunting for tickle bees in the empty lot, and if we found them, we gingerly caught them in our fists. They couldn’t sting, so they buzzed around in our hands until we put them in our pencil boxes and let them out at lunch recess, by which time our pencil boxes were covered in yellow pollen.
As the days lengthened and the temperatures climbed, the dandelions became fluffs of white, upon which I made secret wishes. When I blew on the puff, the wishes scattered into the air, magic would awaken, and my wishes just might come true.
My wishes were for a mother who was well, books to read, friends, blue eye shadow, Sean Cassidy records (and to marry Sean in my boldest wishes), spelling bee victories, and dance lessons. For my grown-up self, I wished for a handsome prince to be my husband, sweet babies to play with, and a pretty house that was always clean.
I got most of my wishes. Some I left behind in childhood, like marrying Sean Cassidy. Some I regret, like the shimmery blue Maybelline eye shadow. Some I never saw come true. But most, I did.
Dandelion wishes were seeds of a life. A messy, magical, life.
I used to love watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show with my parents. I didn’t really understand all of it, but the opening credits were so exciting: beautiful brunette with confident stride and wide smile throws a beanie into the air and gets a perfect freeze frame set to a musical button. I am not the girl who “turned the world on with her smile,” I am too quiet to make that much of an impact. But I have learned to make a “nothing day…seem worthwhile.” That’s what most days are, right? Nothing special days filled with jobs and meal preps, laundry and carpools. My friends, that is where magic lies. In those nothing days.
Sure, I have taught some kids, earned a master’s degree, and shared a few blog posts, but nothing big. Nothing impressive.
I have just walked a quiet, normal life of maintaining a marriage, raising three kids, teaching school, walking dogs, dieting, and making new throw pillows.
I am just the average middle age lady, with a little extra on the hips, a few crepe-y wrinkles on my chest, an inordinate fondness for the color yellow, and a deep love for my sweet husband and kids.
Empty lots and front lawns not only contained magic dandelions, they also hid vicious stickers: little burrs surrounded by sharp points that embedded in skin, socks, and even bike tires. They were awful. They drew blood. They sometimes buried themselves so deeply that it took a deep breath and fierce courage to pull them out of my foot. Is life full of magic wishes? Yes. But is it also full of stinging hurt? Oh, hell yes.
I feel like maybe my story is like a lot of people’s. Lots of little bits and pieces that make up a life. Touchstones that lie alongside each other on the path that makes the road that makes a journey. That make up a person. That make up a soul. Dandelion seeds that, once blown, float in the wind, sometimes landing in fertile soil. Sometimes landing upon rocks or thorns. Sometimes coming true but turning bitter. Like the Biblical parable of the sower, sometimes we have a say in what seeds take root, and sometimes we are at the mercy of the wind, the rain, the sun, and the birds.
And thorns that leave scars.
I believe, down deep in my bones, that life is magical, and that making the attempt to approach each moment with a sense of wonder enables us to live beautifully, no matter our circumstances.
I believe that my mission, my personal legend, my work is to help others see, create, and accept the magic of their own lives. I listen. I write. I hope. I pray. I dream…
But I don’t dream of big stuff like fame or a million dollars. My dreams are made up of tiny glittery thoughts, like dandelion pollen, a fine yellow dust that softens what’s hard and enables new growth. I dream of my children’s affection, the comfort of my home, reading and telling tales, belonging to a group of friends, and great big glasses of pinot grigio.
I dream of feeling secure.
I dream of feeling content in my own skin.
But mostly, I dream of joyous, magical grace and forgiveness.