dandelion

As we say goodbye to summer each year, you hear people say they'll miss a lot of things: time spent with family, trips to the lake, the musical approach of the ice cream man, cookouts in the backyard, chasing fireflies after dark. One thing you rarely hear, though, is the word "dandelion" mentioned in that list. Or maybe I should say "the dreaded dandelion." Because just pronouncing the word causes a nasal twinge in allergy sufferers everywhere; and often prompts outright fury in the heart of any dedicated weekend lawn warrior.

Why such an intense reaction? Partly, I think, it's because the dandelion rears its resolute head almost everywhere, thwarting even the most devoted efforts at eradication. Rain or sun, deluge or drought, you can often glance out any window and spot at least a couple. They grow between patio bricks. They poke their way through cracks along the pavement. They peek out from beneath pristinely manicured shrubs. And unkempt, dusty abandoned lots are often nearly packed with them.

But what's even worse is that the dandelions are kind of chirpily cheerful about all this, with their bright sunny faces always angled up toward the sky; or their delicate white fluff soaring feather-light into the air just like gossamer fairy dust, like sneeze-inducing confetti. A dandelion is like that overeager party guest in the middle of the room, the one whose breathy voice and persistent, high-pitched heh-heh-HEH cause your nerve-endings to stand up and shiver. This person is at least peripherally aware that he is hijacking all attempts at conversation. He knows you'd kind of like him to go home. He just has no intention of leaving. Possibly ever.

I did a little amateur online research, which informed me that the established horticultural term for dandelion is taraxacum officinale. I also learned that, while the dandelions is in fact a weed, it can often be somewhat beneficial. It can serve as a helpful gardening companion plant, for instance, because it often attracts pollinating insects. It also releases a substance that helps certain fruits to ripen faster. And the dandelion's taproot brings up vital nutrients for shallower-rooting plants, while adding minerals and nitrogen back into the soil.

But it's this deep, delving taproot that also makes the dandelion so durable and resilient -- in other words, so tricky to destroy. The roots of a dandelion can run astonishingly deep. Though anyone who's ever tried to choke off that happily flowering head, to poison that underground arterial network, is already well aware of this. If even just a tiny trace is left intact, the dandelion will eventually regenerate. It might take a couple of days, it might take several weeks; but those skinny, scrappy little stalks will work their way back to the surface. Many of us invest extensively to achieve a pristine, turf-like lawn; eradicating, in the process, whatever weeds are present. The dandelion is the weed most inclined -- and equipped -- to thwart our efforts.      

But there's something else you might find thought-provoking, which is this: The common name "dandelion" derives from the French dent-de-lion, which means "lion's tooth." This term leads me to think, not surprisingly, about all the characteristics of a lion. And it also makes me wonder if maybe there's a different way to regard the dandelion altogether.

Because if we accept the uncertainties of human existence -- if we acknowledge the darkness that must exist, if only as a foil to the light -- we realize this darkness would probably love to lay claim to as much turf as possible. And at some level, we recognize that doing so would mean destroying whatever patches of brightness might be popping up here and there. This, in turn, would demand putting a stop to the reproducing process. I mean, if those tiny points of brilliance were to find their way elsewhere -- if they were to establish themselves in a brand new location -- they might begin to take root. To lay claim, so to speak. Even, perhaps, to flourish.

     

Here's the thing: None of us will survive this earthly life. In our current human form, nobody gets out alive. But someone once said that the definition of living with impact means getting knocked down eight times, and getting back up nine. To do that requires roots of faith and stamina that run exceedingly deep. It demands an undeterred willingness to reach out. To distribute our message of hope and courage far and wide. To share our stories of fear and failure and redemption with honest compassion and truth.

And what happens when we feel too exhausted or discouraged to do that? Perhaps we should consider the dandelion. A common weed that's determined to grow up, and around, and through, virtually any obstacle or deterrent or pollutant placed in its path. Perhaps we should ponder how this single-minded resolve can itself become an irritant, an allergen, a weakening blow, a discouraging force to anything that might desire to interfere.  

I'm with you. I used to think of dandelions as nothing more than an eyesore, an annoying nuisance underfoot. But you know, just lately, they're really beginning to grow on me.