Wildflowers

There are several memories that stick out in my mind when spring comes around. I can remember many mornings when I was in school, following my father around the yard. He was dressed in steel-toed boots and company blue work clothes, sipping coffee and shuffling around through the dew-laden grass. He would stop every few feet and point to some flower that was blooming. It was, and still is, a favorite hobby of his. He loves to garden, whether for vegetables or flowers.

Maybe I didn’t come away with a thumb as green as my father’s, but I’ve definitely learned to appreciate anything that comes from the Earth. I think it tells us a great deal about ourselves, our world, and what lessons we can learn from this humble bounty.

For that reason, the wildflower is my flower of choice. It’s my favorite, always has been and always will be.

They edge the fields and trails. They color the base of the mountain. They outline the creeks and meadows.

In the wildest of places, they grow. That is why I admire them so much.

As opposed to what we manicure and coddle in the flower beds around our house, these flowers grow on their own.

They don’t get fertilized, no one tests their soil. Some years they get too much rain, some years they get none. All the harshness that Mother Nature can cast down on them – be it wind, rain, drought, etc. – must be endured.

They weren’t raised with a mission. They weren’t cross-pollenated or planted with a flower of compatible color. They were placed to highlight a feature.

They just grow.

On the least little edge of a cliff, they grow. In the middle of a desert, they grow. In the cold barren tundra, they grow.

It can be dry for months and then rain once. And they’ll bloom.

The dirt can be frozen for weeks, and then the sun peaks through for a day or two. And they’ll bloom.

Unharnessed.

Wild.

Free.

And beautiful.

That’s their mission.