‎”Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.” A. A. Milne

Have you ever felt like a weed?  Spindly … wavering in the wind, wondering if you’ll soon be mowed because you grew where you were not planted, or wanted?  Most of us have probably felt that way at some point in our lives.  But when I found the A.A. Milne quote above, my heart felt a gentle tug. I looked inside myself and found the tug was from the little weed of me, born despite desire, grown by hook or by crook and many missteps into a tough old weed … tall and rough, strong enough. 

Still a weed, yes, but a flower, too.

I’ve always loved weeds and think that I know why. They remind me of myself. I find them strewn along every single path I walk, peeking out here and there, sometimes crushed and sometimes not. Yet, even when crushed, soon standing again … when the rain comes down and the sun comes out, and the warmth of a southern day dries their tears. They stand up and keep on growing.

Years ago, I tried planting a garden of collected weeds from my walks and meanderings around the farm where we lived. Some were absolutely beautiful. Brightly colored, starchy straight with bright green leaves and spread out arms. Some so thin and confused about themselves, they seemed to be reaching all over the place for some thing to grasp.  I let them hang around my neck, beneath my arm, into my shirt … holding on … until I could dig a home for them to live and grow.  My ‘garden’ was planted in the front section so I could watch them from my front windows and visitors could see them when driving up.  Dandelions held hands along the outside … circling the wagons, so to speak, protection for the fragile ones still reaching, weak and wavery.  There were honeysuckle vines I imagined swirling at the feet of friends, and Carolina jasmine just inside the dandelions, hovering around the wild roses which grew around and very close to the morning glory vines I envisioned pillowing the entire garden.

In the center of my wildflower garden was a maypop vine with a beautiful purple ‘ballerina’ standing straight and tall, bright and cheerful, arms outstretched as if to say, ‘Look at my garden and my flowering soldiers of strength and glory all around me; watch me as I twirl.”  I knew that weed was the me of wishes and dreams, memories and laughter, plans of love and joy and beauty beyond imagination, surrounded by a bunch of other weeds in lines and circles, waving at the world and wind that came to test their strength in their carefully, tenderly planted spot.

They were my friends.

My garden never made it through the summer … every single one died, some quickly as if struck by lightning, some a slow excruciating death. But for a while they lived and sang and danced in the wind and the rain and praised in the sun.  And while they lived, I tried to learn the lessons they were teaching.

Sing in the sunshine when it shines.

Dance in the rain when it waters you.

Wait in the dark and nod your head.

Wake in the light and lift your hands.

You know that even if you feel unwanted, Someone planned and planted you.