7:30 am, doggy in tow, Eric by my side, I open the door and the first thing that hits me…the thick, humid air – like a punch in the face. Glorious!
Ah, Montreal summers…we do not complain but revel in the strength of the beams warming our bones, for we know all too soon when that door opens to welcome Montreal winter – we’ll be met with a kick in the… you get it.
After a moment of acclimatizing, there is the second thing I notice: those little yellow flowers abundantly speckled on the lawn. They greet us as we make our first strides across the driveway, “Good Morning!”
Summer brings an abundance of happy feelings, cicadas singing, birds chirping, and everywhere you look flowers are blossoming, every colour, shape and size. That’s part of the beauty and wonder.
Pulling around the corner, back from a drive, there they are, “Hey there, nice day isn’t it?”
Bright, sunny, they bring a smile to our faces every time we see them.
Look how cute they are dusting our lawn with bright dabs of liquid sunshine, swaying and dancing in unison to the rhythm of the subtle breeze.
Yet…yet… under my breath I mutter, “we really must cut the lawn and get rid of them. Ours is the only one with those…those…dandelions”.
For you see, as far down the street as you can see it is a sea of green grass, manicured and weeded, the perfectly straight diagonal patterns of a persistent mower bent on keeping nature in line. Barely an “eyesore” in sight.
Could it be…could it be that these little flowers that we appreciate every day, that bring us so much joy be causing some internal strife for the simple need to…conform?
Could I be worried about what others are thinking as they stroll by, as clients pull into my driveway…as I compare the sea of smooth green to the reckless abandon of the wildflowers?
As one who has always appreciated the magnificence of nature, all things great and small…who has never been afraid to be different, to stand out, with an appreciation of the eclectic, a penchant for the unusual…it is a hard pill to swallow.
You have probably already guessed the moral of this story.
I love those little flowers. They bring us joy. They make us smile.
I love the way they greet us, the way they party with the bumblebees, play hostess to the butterflies; and I love how when it is time for Frieda’s last evening walk, the sun has set and the last streaks of pink and lavender mark the end of another day, they slip into slumber like the rest of us, keeping their fragile petals closed inside their little chlorophyll duvets.
I love that they represent the coming alive of all that was seemingly endlessly dormant, and that they will be inevitably be buried under a blanket of snow, only to reappear again next year, bringing with them the same hopeful and happy feelings.
Always be you.
Love what you love.
Do not let comparison, conformity, or the need to please others ever thwart you from your own calling or your own joy.
Because at the end of the day, it is the variety, the willows and the weeds, the roses and the ranunculus that create the perfect, most spectacular garden.
There was a reason we couldn’t bring ourselves to start that mower.
It was always “tomorrow…tomorrow.” Now I know it is was because deep down, we wanted to experience the flowers just one more day.
I will not be cutting my lawn any time soon.
If you pass by a lawn speckled with yellow…feel free to stop and say “Hello, nice day isn’t it!”