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Wildflower Stories
This Spring, I bought two packets of flower seeds off the seed rack at the Kent Natural Foods Co-op. With a vision of adding to my wildflower mix, I chose the giant purple zinnias and the bronze petaled sunflowers. A few weeks after planting the seeds, when the sunflower sprouts were just about 8 inches tall, a fat groundhog that lives behind my garage climbed up and over the fence and had itself a feast. It didn’t touch the zinnias, but the sunflowers were gone. As I rode up the stairlift that June afternoon, I cursed that groundhog and I wanted him dead. But then I remembered my own instructions... "Say yes!"
In my work as an artist-in-residence, I used to love making banakulas (pr. bah-nuh-KOO-lah) with students. It’s two shaker balls tied together with a string that you spin, throw and knock to make cool rhythms. We made hundreds of pairs of these things in schools all over the state of Ohio. With a banakula in each hand, I could get the whole fourth grade playing in unison some beautiful and satisfying syncopated rhythms. But eventually, with enough drops on the linoleum floor, banakulas would break. Too many times, I listened to students whine and complain, "Mr. Hal Walker, my banakula broke!" . When I'd had enough, I came up with some clear instructions. From then on, the rule was, "When your banakula breaks, say 'Yes !'"
These instructions baffled the students. “Why would you say ‘Yes’ if your banakula has just broken?” In my mind however, it was clear. I had no tolerance left for their complaints and I wanted to teach an important lesson. When your banakula breaks, you say "Yes" because the banakula has broken. There's no going back and there's no use complaining. It's time to get on with the business of making another banakula.
So the sunflowers were gone. I could either spend my afternoon cursing that damn groundhog or I could say “yes” and simply figure out what I was gonna do next. Admittedly, it took some time for my heart to heal, but eventually I got over the loss of those sweet little plants. I moved on. A couple weeks later, Merl, my next door neighbor, let me know that he had trapped the groundhog and relocated it out to the woods somewhere. I didn’t ask any questions. By that time I was happy with my garden full of wildflowers and a nice little crop of zinnias.
This year, the annual bronze petaled sunflowers were not meant to be. A big ol’ groundhog took ‘em out. Instead, the giant purple zinnias took center stage. This year, they were the stars of the garden. I hope the groundhog’s doing ok out there.
Back when Hallie was about five years old, I picked up a vagabond hitchhiker at a truck stop outside of Columbus, Ohio. Rainbow Jim and I had such a pleasant drive up 77 that I invited him to come back to my house to do some work for me. He had no other plans, so it worked out for the both of us. Jim was a kind, gentle and hard working soul that ended up living with Hallie and me for about two months. All that was required to keep him going was a case of beer after work every night. At the time, I was happy to provide.
Jim built a wooden slat fence around the yard with three gates. Thanks to that fence, my dog Nell got free of the chain and had about a quarter of an acre to roam. He tore a big hole in the back room and put in a sliding glass door. This completely reconfigured our house and revolutionized our connection with the backyard. Then he built a nice little platform deck upon which my wheelchair ramp is built today. To finish off his residency in Kent, Ohio, Jim painted the house.
As you might expect, Jim was missing a front tooth and had a bit of a beer belly. Though he drank way too much, he had the kindest smile and the warmest handshake of anyone I’d ever met. His great joy in life was running the "A" camp kitchen at rainbow gatherings around the country. (The A-camp is the only camp at a rainbow gathering that allows alcohol. It’s where Jim was the self-proclaimed host and the master chef.) A couple years after he left, I got a phone call from Jim from a motel somewhere south of here. He let me know that he was dying of cancer. That was the last I ever heard from my friend Jim. The fence and the deck that he built are still standing strong. They’re starting to show their age in a real beautiful way though.
Thanks Jim. You were a bit of a wildflower, weren’t you?
For as long as I can remember, my dad had a compost pile and a vegetable garden in the way back part of the property. That garden was his pride and joy. My sisters and I all fondly remember dad's familiar invitation, "Wanna go back and see my garden?" His specialties were tomatoes, yellow squash, zucchini and green beans. My dad wasn’t much of a handy man but he could jerry-rig a pole bean trellis like nobody's business. He used to put duct tape on his gardening shoes so they'd last forever.
About 20 years ago, I hired a concrete crew to remove a big section of my driveway and fill it with garden soil. I became a vegetable gardener and a composter like my dad -- jerry-rigged trellises and all. My specialties have been rainbow chard, beets, purple pole beans, cucumbers and tomatoes. But this year, I wasn't well enough to plant vegetables, so I spread wildflower seeds instead. This little patch of living color has been my pride and joy ever since. I love taking visitors out back to revel in its glory.
I'm different than my dad around shoes though. I once found a style of Ecco shoes that I liked so much that I bought four different colors of the same shoe. I have a history of being kind of extreme that way. I can’t imagine my dad ever doing something like that. He wore the same blue gardening shirt for 40 years. Just recently, my caregiver put a whole shelf full of shoes into a black plastic bag and carried it up to attic for storage. Pretty much bedbound with ME/CFS, I don’t wear shoes much these days.
For about a year now, every night I write a list of ten things that I’m grateful for. I used to make a numbered vertical list, but my friend Carol gave me a different idea. Instead of vertical numbering, I separate each grateful word, phrase or sentence with a little bullet mark. Continuing on that same line, I write the next one. Last month, I bought a blue spiral bound notebook that I’m filling up of gratefulness. Using Carol's idea, I now have many pages that are completely full. No matter how rough the day has been, (and there have been some rough ones) I search out the day for the “Yeses.” Tonight’s gonna be easy. I’ll start with this one…
• Spending time with Hallie taking pictures by the wildflowers •
It occurs to me that every one of us is a bit of a wildflower — Merl, Jim, Hallie, Carol my dad and the groundhog. Each one of us special… reaching to the sun. And even though we do what we can to deny it, we live in the wild. No matter how hard we try, we can’t escape the rigor of the natural world. I’m finding it out first hand as this illness sweeps through my life like a rogue wave.
I'm grateful for the wildness in my life today and the wildflowers that keep showing up on my path. I hope I can pause long enough to recognize their beauty. I hope I can care deep enough to honor their presence in my life. I hope I can love wide enough to do no more harm. May we stay open to the growing and the shining that we get to do right along side each other as we reach for the sun - you, me, the cosmos, the dandelions, the Black Eyed Susans, the zinnias, the sunflowers and all the wildflowers among us.
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