Dandelions

I had a cup of her special organic cinnamon-laced coffee with my friend Jude in her back garden this morning, and then we went for a good walk through the woods, where the hawthorne is blooming and the geese are on the move. I noticed she has dandelions blooming in her garden, that they are the same color as the shirt she was wearing, and I asked her if I could take a picture of her with the dandelions in the background. I said I love dandelions, but I know some people regard them as a nuisance.

"Oh, I love them," she said, raising her hand to touch her heart. "They go through this amazing transformation, from puffy yellow cushions to a globe full of stars. Children love them. They have very helpful medicinal uses--I eat them in salads and I use them in tea. They grow anywhere; they're incredibly resilient."

"Like us," I said.

Jude and I are both more now of what we always wanted to be. She's still teaching, but she's her own boss, and we're both fit enough to enjoy the world unfolding in surprising ways. We're no longer worried about proving or pleasing. We live alone, rich in solitude and in connection, making what we make as well as we can make it. There was a time when I feared age, when I feared to be old and alone, when I wanted passionately to be extraordinary, excellent, first-rate in every way and capable of attracting a wonderful partner who would adore me forever. I still fuss at myself for perceived inadequacies; I suppose the voice of self-judgment will never shut up. But I fling it over my shoulder and grin into the pleasure of the day and the pure beauty of the common dandelion.