I’ve been thinking . . .
about wildflowers.
In the early spring, in a grassy field, we can see something that looks to the unschooled eye to be a weed, but they’re not they’re wildflowers.
Some folks walk to a different drummer, some go their own way, some get called weeds when they are really wildflowers.
It’s easy to misunderstand each other, we use different words in minds that work differently. We grew up learning differently about how the world works. What we call a rose does change what we think of it. What do you think of weeds and wildflowers?
When someone misunderstands us, we don’t need to get thrown, if we know who we are. One person’s weed is another person’s wildflower. What matters most is that wildflowers stand tall enough to reach the sun so that we can grow.
We have these tiny bright traits of beauty that outstrip the most cultivated flower.
It might be a smile that comes easily.
It might be the grace of a quiet way.
It’s the charm of a person who doesn’t mind a wait.
It’s the one who never gives up.
A twinkle in the eyes gives it away.
A softness in the voice passes it on.
A sweet touch to the face offers it up.
Wildflowers are natures surprises set out with love.
The world is filled with people.
We are so many wildflowers. I’ve never met a person who, in some way, wasn’t one. Each of us offers something new to learn, new to know, new to understand about the world and each other. Each genuine person I meet always has some trait, some quality — something that I don’t have enough of in my life.
Every wildflower offers me a chance to be a better person.
I’m on the lookout for wildlowers of every sort this weekend — some will stand inside a clear, old milk jug vase I think is special. I’ll put a bow around it. Some will be the people who come to admire the vase that holds some wildflowers standing tall inside.
