earth day

For awhile this morning I contemplated writing something uplifting for Earth Day, but everything seemed to fall flat. The truth is that since moving back home to Wisconsin, I've been confronted by some of the most intense land-based grief I've ever experienced. There's something about living in this semi-rural zone outside of Madison that really puts me face-to-face with the reality of the ecological violence that gets perpetuated on the hyperlocal level as the city expands itself (which seems to be a never ending project). New housing developments where a field once was, miles of trees removed for the construction of a major and heavily contested powerline, old cornfields converted into shopping complexes or storage units instead of stewarded back to prairie or converted into food crops.

It's an incredibly complex thing for me to wrap my head around, and I haven't quite figured out how to talk or think about it. I happen to know some developers/developer-adjacent people very well, and while I don't often agree with them, I do recognize that sometimes development is done with care and out of a real, pressing need, and that there are a lot of good people working at the intersection of urban planning, economic growth, and environmental protection. I understand that and I try to hold as much nuance as I can around it. I also understand that folks sell off their semi-rural and rural land to developers for a number of reasons, often to make ends meet. But when I see a new hole in the ground or a hillside with the trees brutally removed, a million sirens go off in my body—it's jarring when the land is one way one day, and completely erased the next.

My sensitivity around this is often misunderstood by the people in my life so I tend to shut down and go numb, pretending it doesn't matter. But it does and it catches up to me and I start to worry. I worry about the animals and I worry about us and our loss of natural places to enjoy. I worry that no matter how many ecological assessments are undertaken before a new development begins (does this typically even happen around here when the land that's being developed isn't "wild"?), the jobs it's supporting, the convenience of the stores being built, the comfortable homes people will move into, etc., there's still so much that we lose. The loss of plants, trees, animals, birds, insects, the loss of our edgeland ecosystems and wildlife corridors, the loss of beauty.

Underlying any new development is the assumption that it is within our human rights to take from nonhuman beings, especially in places like this—"normal" places. These aren't stunning, pristine wilderness places, they're places that have been altered by human activity for a long time now, places that we for some reason don't value the same way we do "untouched" places. But what if we did? What if before a new piece of land becomes developed, everyone involved paused for a moment and really acknowledged that land, what it's like today, what it was like in the past, what it could be in the future? Its ecological value (even when subtle and mundane), not just its monetary value? How would that change us? How would that change the type of development that gets approved?

I understand that living where I do I'm complicit in all this (at one point my 1970s home was also just a big deforested hole in the landscape), and I grapple with how to navigate my own privilege and the access I have to rural living. I'm not sure theres’ a resolution, only that I'm often jolted into a feeling of anxious sadness—which I think is a good thing. I guess the gift of it is knowing that on the other side of my sadness is the immense love I have for this place and the real sense of belonging I feel here.

But I do wish there was more space to talk about this without the conversation immediately being shut down. I can't tell you how many times it's been implied to me that I'm being unreasonable and too emotional, that “this is just the way the world works,” that people have the right to do whatever they want with the land they own and “who am I to judge." Dane County is expected to grow by 120,000 people by 2040 (that's more than a 20% increase in population), climate change being one of several reasons we're expecting so much growth. And while I want people to have homes here, I also believe there's a way to soften and expand the conversation around growth and suburban development, to make space for the loss that accompanies it, even when necessary. We just so happen to be incredibly imaginative beings and I wonder if we can’t do better for each other and right by our nonhuman neighbors. In the words of Gaylord Nelson, former governor or Wisconsin and the founder of Earth Day, "Our goal is not just an environment of clean air and water and scenic beauty. The objective is an environment of decency, quality and mutual respect for all other human beings and all other living creatures." 

One thing I've found inspirational is visiting beautiful places that were more or less destroyed at some point during the last 200 years as the result of European settlement and industry, but have since been restored and are now valued simply for their beauty and ecological importance. One of those places is Horicon Marsh, one of the nation's largest freshwater wetlands. We recently visited and paddled to a well-known Great Blue Heron rookery. It was amazing to float through what felt like endless cattail marsh knowing that not too long ago it was completely decimated. The marsh was was over-hunted in the mid-late 1800s then dammed, raising the water levels by 9 feet and essentially converting the biologically-rich wetlands into an enormous lake. The dam was later removed and the wetlands that did return were diked and dredged, drying up the marsh. What was left of it was destroyed in a catastrophic wildfire, then abandoned altogether by the same communities who so dramatically altered it for their own purposes. Yet with dedicated restoration efforts beginning in the 1940s, it has slowly been restored to one of our state's great wetland wonders.

Nature is incredibly intelligent, and with a little help from us, knows exactly how to return to itself. Often we just need to get out of the way. It’s silly but I find myself humming the tune of “Spinning Wheel” by the American jazz rock band, Blood, Sweat & Tears. “What goes up, must come down.”

weird weather

Greetings from the Mojave Desert!

It's quiet and still this morning as I write in the late winter sun. From where I'm sitting I can see the San Bernardino mountains off to the west, dusted in snow, the more immediate landscape flat and sandy and dotted with desert Chaparral and Joshua Trees. We're on the last leg of our three-week trip in California. The first two weeks were spent up around the Bay Area where we stayed with family, working remotely, visiting old friends, and freewheeling around San Francisco like we used to.

We decided to come down to the desert to soak up some sun and warmth our last week before returning home to the Wisconsin winter. You see when we planned this trip, we were anticipating a normal-as-can-be February at home, with freezing temperatures and ideally some snow. Oddly enough, most days we've been away it has been warmer where we live in Wisconsin than it has been here in California! Two days ago the high in Joshua Tree was 66 degrees. Vermont, Wisconsin? 70. While I'm sure the spring temperatures feel lovely and invigorating, I find the warmth (and lack of precipitation) unnerving.

In southern Wisconsin, the typical average temperature in February is in the mid 20s. Yes it warms up by the end of the month, and it's not unusual to have a few days in the 40s, but 70 degrees is much, much too hot, and I find myself experiencing a climate anxiety like never before. Perhaps the most immediate sensation is one of helplessness. I know there are many things, large and small, that we can all do to help mitigate changes to our climate, but at the end of the day, it is what it is. I don't control the weather and neither do you. No one does! And I'm learning how to be with that, as scary as it feels.

I find myself worried about the plants that won't be able to survive these wild fluctuations, worried about the trees that will leaf out early and likely have their flowers damaged by frosts. I’m worried about the animals that are active too soon with very little food available—and I'm worried about us. For whatever reason I'm not really thinking about society and long-term survival, but instead wondering about us as individuals. How do we experience spring when there is no winter? Who do we become? I was recently told by an ecologist that our southern Wisconsin birch trees are migrating north as they can no longer survive our feeble winters—they need the deep freeze and the long cold. Who are we without the birch trees? Who are we without the deep freeze and the long cold?

And another question I've been asking myself for a long time now: how do I want to live my life amid the nuances and paradoxes of these times? How do I appreciate what feels good (like May temps in February) without engaging in cognitive dissonance about the realities and unknowns we're collectively facing (and with the awareness of so much horrific suffering and violence in the world)? What does that look like as an ongoing practice, lifeway and orientation? 

For the past month I've been snaking my way through The Driftless Reader, a compilation of ecological, historical, and creative writings about the part of Wisconsin we call home. If you don't know, the Driftless is a hilly, rugged landscape shaped by moving water and defined by the absence of glacial drift. While most of the upper midwest was at one point or another covered by massive sheets of ice, for whatever reason (and the exact reason is still unknown), the 24,000 square miles that comprise the Driftless never were.

As I make my way through the book, I've been finding a lot of comfort in learning about the geologic history of where I live, in sensing beyond the immediacy of our clocks and calendars, and into the vastness of time. I like trying to wrap my mind around the unfathomable amount of change these lands experienced before we even got here. Not as a way to dismiss the challenges we face today or to shirk accountability, but to better understand loss, resiliency, survival, and adaptation.

And within it all, I find it comforting to be reminded of the smallness of my life, and of our human societies and constructs. I am nothing! (Or better put, I'm hardly anything.) And yet here I am and here we are—we're a part of something unimaginably old, infinitely intelligent, and beautiful beyond belief. The original paradox.

I’m not sure there are fixed answers to my questions, and I get the sense that learning how to live well in these times, and to do right by each other and the Earth, is an ongoing process. Like the ever-moving, meandering, streaming, draining, seeping, spilling, sometimes crashing water that shapes the Driftless, perhaps a good approach is to follow the flow of the land and see where we end up. Like the rivers that flow to the sea, my guess is that it will bring us together.

Outside the wind has picked up. It's slicing through the branches of an olive-like desert shrub I can't identify. I'm going to take my dog to a nearby wetland to see what's going on with the willows and the cottonwood trees and to know what it feels like to look more closely at the distant mountains. But I'm also looking forward to being back in familiar wetlands next week, scent of mud and home. I've heard that the cranes are already returning to our southern Wisconsin waterways. I'm sad to have missed their first calls, the exhilarating crack of air as it echoes between hills.

~ Clare

every seed is a longing*

(excerpted from a newsletter sent 10/30/23, about a class by the same name)

If you know me, you know that my garden has been an important part of my life these past few years. I had never really gardened before we moved back to Wisconsin, but I had dreamed of growing plants for much of my adult life. The woman we bought our house from (who has since passed away) was an avid gardener and well known around here for her green thumb and famous blueberry bushes. She and her husband lived here for the last 30 years of their lives, growing old together and several large plots of vegetables, flowers, and herbs.

By the time we took over, the garden beds were quite overrun by grasses. There were still remnants of their former glory (a patchy raspberry patch, the most stunning peonies, an enormous rhubarb plant, garlic chives and oregano growing like weeds…), but the last few summers have been a process of saving what I can and clearing the rest. So far I've reclaimed about one third of the former beds and planted about half of that with perennial medicinal herbs and native wildflowers, and the other half a combination of vegetables, annual herbs, and cut flowers. By no means do I know what I’m doing, but it’s been rewarding to witness the space grow into (messy, colorful) fullness once again.

Garden tending (and the off-season dreaming + planning) has now become a foundational part of my seasonal rhythms. Throughout the year, my garden is an important anchor, holding me in place and tying me to the land I live on. It provides year-round structure and routine, and is the source of a profound sense of both accomplishment and satisfaction. Not to mention the material nourishment it provides. 

But beyond that, I’ve come to consider gardening a form of creative collaboration with plants and place. My garden is practical, yes, but it's also a living art installation, a site specific piece exploring the themes of beauty and sustenance, aliveness and reciprocity. It is the place in my life where hard work, sensuality, delight, and nonhuman relationship dance together. 

And I'm not of the mind that gardening alone will solve the world's problems, but I absolutely do believe that if we have the ability to make whatever little patch of earth we have access to more beautiful, more welcoming to other animals, and more ecologically diverse, then we're doing something very important. For me, a garden is a place where hope is practiced. Because to garden, you have to believe in life—you have to believe that despite whatever comes your way, life will flourish. That life itself is abundant and generous. At a time of great ecological devastation and loss, gardening is an act of radical faith. It's an offering to the world you long for.

*The phrase "every seed is a longing" comes from Kahlil Gibran's poem Sand and Foam.

plants for the pyrocene

(excerpted from a newsletter sent 6/29/23)

Dear friends, 

I wasn't planning on writing a newsletter anytime soon. A good number of the herbs in my garden are starting to come into their fullness and I had set aside this entire week to make much-needed medicine for the shop. Yarrow tincture and oil, wood betony elixir, feverfew tincture, motherwort tincture and oil, and lavender tincture to name a few, not to mention all of the other herbs I've been looking forward to bundling and hang-drying literally all over my house. Unfortunately the smoke has been pouring in, we're stuck inside, and I'm reluctantly finding other things to do while we wait out the truly terrible air. Cue newsletter.

Ecologically speaking, it's been a tough start to summer ~ severe drought and now the smoke. The plants, normally buzzing with life and color this early in the season, look tired and stunted. We're noticing more and more animals coming up to our home looking for food and water. If exposure to today's AQI is the equivalent of smoking 9 cigarettes, I worry for the songbirds and their tiny lungs.

Nick recently introduced me to the term "pyrocene" ~ the age of fire ~ and what scientists have started calling this new climatological era we've only just begun. It's wild to me to have moved back to the Midwest during some of the worst wildfires on the west coast, to a place that felt like refuge, a watery place (the wateriest place), but right now (and every summer since being back) a place of styrofoam skies and dried up marshes, wilting trees and desperate animals. The utter lack of control is unnerving. I wish I could whisper to the sky and summon rain clouds, don't you?

I'm currently enrolled in Flowering Round with Liz Migliorelli of Sister Spinster (a long-term teacher of mine), an eight-month flower essence practitioner course. In her teaching, Liz really emphasizes essence-making as a way to be in deep and present relationship with place, and that making essences is fundamentally a devotional practice.

You don't make a willow flower essence because Dr. Bach says it's for easing tension, you make a willow essence because you've been watching them for a month (ever since the cranes came back to the marsh) and you know they're going to bloom second to only the marsh marigolds, for just a week or so, when the days start to warm up but it's still so cold at night. And because willow flowers are one of the first foods for the honeybees who visit and return home to their hives dusty and yellowed, and that the first precious honey of the year will be willow honey. Because in the summer their minty, silvery leaves glow against the neon green of the hills, and you know that where there's a willow, there's a way—to water. Cleansing, cooling, hydrating, flowing. Willow, the tree that likes to "keep its feet wet," that sometimes weeps. The prolific and resilient tree that's used to make baskets and brooms and divining rods. Soother of pain, beloved by blackbirds and snakes and spiders. The "soft" "junk" tree that falls apart and re-sprouts from itself for generations.

Maybe I can't whisper to the sky and summon rain clouds, but I can put on my mask and go sit with the willows. Check on the creek, check on the mud, listen for the blackbirds. When there's so little else we can do, at least we can still choose where to give our attention. We almost always have the ability to be present to the immediate world around us, which the older I get, the more I tend to believe is one of the most important things we can do. We care more about the things we're paying attention to. And who knows, maybe the willows will help me understand something about the water around here, something about mud, something about rain and no rain, how to keep my feet wet, something about distant wildfire, something about clouds.

Lots of love, 

Clare

dandelion queendom

One of my favorite ways to connect with the vibrant energy of spring is to cook and bake with the herbs and flowers returning to life around me. If cooking with fresh and wild herbs is new to you, one of the easiest places to begin is with Dandelion.

Dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) is a nutrient-dense wild food and beloved herbal medicine. Now that we’ve had some rain and our Dandelion has grown dark and lush, I’m eating the leaves most every day. While I wait for the other greens I’ve planted to grow large enough to consume, Dandelion is a much-appreciated early spring food I can enjoy right from my own yard. Some days I harvest leaves to sauté or add to soups, but most days I just head outside and eat a few on my way to the garden.

The genus Taraxacum is native to Eurasia and North America, but the common Dandelion we all know and love today was introduced to Europe where it was commonly cultivated for food, then brought to North America by European settlers. Unlike some plants that were brought here and are now considered invasive, Dandelion became naturalized and benefits other plants growing around it by fixing nitrogen and other minerals in the soil. It’s also an important food source for early spring pollinators when other flowers have yet to bloom.

Nevertheless, Dandelion is generally classified as a weed. As a result, many people consider it a nuisance and spend countless hours trying to fight it. Unfortunately, this fight can sometimes lead to the use of toxic chemicals that soak into the ecosystem, harming pollinators and birds, waterways, and more.

If we step back for a moment and notice the beliefs we hold about plants—and about weeds in particular—we’re given the chance to explore what we value (or don’t value) and why. Why are some plants considered weeds and other wildflowers? What communities or cultures steward(ed) a particular plant, and why? What communities and cultures aim(ed) to eradicate a particular plant, and why? When we allow certain plants to thrive, who benefits? When we rid the landscape of a particular plant, who suffers?

For a lot of folks, Dandelion speaks to how disconnected we’ve become from wild foods—and by extension, the notion that the Earth provides for us. It speaks to perfectionism and control, and to the myth of ownership (who’s lawn?). In so many ways, Dandelion helps us understand how we relate to land, and what we believe about who and what belongs.

Changing our awareness and relationship with edible and medicinal weeds—especially the ones that benefit pollinators and other plants in their ecosystems—fundamentally changes us. When we start appreciating Dandelion as a food or herbal medicine, we’re inevitably brought into deeper contemplation of place and belonging, stewardship and care, nourishment and abundance. At the very least, we’ll surrender the to the wild abandon of a cheery, yellow lawn, abuzz with bumblebees.

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The benefits of Dandelion:

(Please note: The following statements have not been approved by the FDA. They are for educational purposes only and should not be construed as individual medical advice. Thoroughly research any herb you plan on ingesting and be sure there are no contraindications for you, especially if you’re on medication or have a medical condition, or you’re pregnant, nursing, or trying to conceive.)

Dandelion leaf is a nutrient-dense wild food, high in minerals and vitamins A, C, and E, folate, as well as antioxidant properties. The leaves typically contain more beta-carotene than carrots, and more calcium and iron that spinach. And aside from its unfortunate reputation as a weed, the leaves are probably best known for their intensely bitter flavor.

We have bitter receptors all over our bodies—throughout the digestive tract, in cardiovascular tissue, in the brain, in the lungs, throughout the nervous system, etc.— and we’re only just beginning to understand the wide range of benefits associated with regularly consuming bitter foods. Generally speaking, bitter foods and herbs support digestion by stimulating digestive secretions. They support lymph clearance and liver function (including liver detox processes), aid the break down and absorption of fats, and support the nervous system. High in vitamins and minerals, bitter leafy greens contain diuretic properties and are used clinically to support kidney function. In general, bitter leafy greens (as well as onions, garlic, and other foods in the allium family, and the brassicas) are considered to be “cleansing” foods, meaning they support the body’s innate detox processes through a variety of mechanisms.

In addition to (or perhaps because of) their bitter properties, Dandelion leaves are known to strengthen peristalsis and support the breakdown and absorption of food. In herbalism, they’re eaten or used in tea as a tonic for the kidneys and urinary tract. They act as a gentle potassium-replenishing diuretic, resolving fluid retention in the body. Traditionally, Dandelion leaves were used to relieve bloating associated with menstruation and to treat mild urinary tract infections. Like the root, the leaves are rich in inulin—a prebiotic food for the microbiome that also supports blood sugar regulation.

Dandelion root is also bitter, though it has more of a nuttier flavor than the leaves. While the leaves primarily support the liver indirectly through their bitter flavor, the root has more a direct affinity with the liver and directly supports liver function in a variety of ways. Because the liver plays such an important role in the body—influencing everything from hormone synthesis to digestion, blood sugar regulation to detoxification, inflammation and immunity, and a whole lot more—Dandelion root has a somewhat universal effect. Because of this, it can typically be used as a gentle tonic for when someone is showing signs of generalized inflammation (trouble with elimination and digestion, headaches or other aches, immune imbalances, skin issues, fatigue and brain fog, etc.), and many folks sip it daily for general “maintenance.”

More specifically, Dandelion root is most often used as a gentle tonic for the liver with the intent to support the breakdown and absorption of fats. It is commonly used to address skin imbalances—anything from acne to eczema, itchiness associated with allergies, and more. In higher doses, Dandelion root acts as a gentle laxative and can be used to support elimination, especially when poor tone is part of the issue. Because the liver is in part responsible for both the synthesis and clearance of steroidal hormones, Dandelion root can be useful for maintaining hormone balance and treating the symptoms associated with both menstruation and stress.

The entire plant is cooling and drying. This means that when one consumes over time, it cools the body and dries the tissues. In small doses, this isn’t something most folks need to worry about. In higher doses, this is something to consider. For some people, the cooling, drying effects are part of the medicine. However, if you already run cold and dry, you may want to avoid long-term therapeutic use of Dandelion, or pair it with other more warming, moistening foods and herbs. (A clinical herbalist should consider this anytime they’re creating a formula for you, and will try to match herbs to your general constitution.)

In various medicine traditions, the liver is energetically associated with anger and the processing of emotions—no surprise as it plays an important role in the synthesis and clearance of our stress hormones, as well as ammonia (when liver disease or infection causes ammonia to build up, people become irritable and enraged). Culturally, we often associate anger with heat—we say we’re “getting heated” or “red in the face.” Perhaps cooling, liver-loving plants like Dandelion can help one to work productively with rage, process emotions, and clear anger from their system.

Dandelion flower essence being made

The flower essence of Dandelion facilitates a softening around long-held, hardened beliefs and behaviors that serve to protect us from the fears associated with loss of control. Like the seeds that take to the wind, it prompts us to explore the theme of surrender. It shows us that the only way to have true control over our lives is to accept that much of life is out of our control—and from there develop the emotional and spiritual maturity to navigate uncertainty with grace. In the process we might ask: how can I trust more deeply? How can I receive with more ease? Where can I practice letting go? Where can I bring more simplicity and joy to my life?

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Tips for working with Dandelion:

A harvest of three early spring foods: Dandelion leaves, Stinging Nettle, and Violet

(Please note: While it’s pretty hard to misidentify Dandelion, always be sure you’re absolutely positive you’re harvesting the correct plant, and be sure to harvest from places where it will be free from pesticides and other toxins, urine, etc. Due to the popularity of wildcrafting and the consequent decimation of wild plant populations, I generally don’t wildcraft plants anymore. That said, Dandelion is very, very abundant and heck, you may even be doing someone a favor! And finally, Dandelion is in the Aster family so if you’re allergic to other Asters, you may way to avoid it.)

Once you’ve properly identified Dandelion and ensured that the plant you’re harvesting is free from chemicals, pollution, urine, etc., I encourage you to feel empowered in your creativity! Just get out there and start experimenting. There are so many ways to be in relationship with this generally very safe and abundant food and herb, below are just a few of my favorites.

A Dandelion leaf, asparagus, and mushroom frittata.

LEAVES:

The best way to access the medicinal and nutritional qualities of the leaves is to either cook them or eat them raw, use them in tea, or infuse them into vinegar. The leaves are the most medicinal when fresh, though dried they make a medicinal and highly nutritive tea or broth. Personally, I like to make soup with the fresh leaves, or sauté them in olive oil, garlic, and a little bit of honey and fresh lemon juice. To harvest the leaves yourself, simply pick them, wash them, and use them the way you would any leafy green.

I also like to infuse the leaves into apple cider vinegar to create mineral-rich salad dressings, as well as to address urinary imbalances. To make your own, simply fill a jar with chopped leaves and cover them with vinegar. Seal and let sit in a dark and cool place. You may want to put wax paper between the contents of the jar and the lid. After a few weeks, strain and enjoy! Keep in mind that vinegar usually prevents mold from growing, but if there’s enough water in the leaves, it can grow. In that case, you’ll want to throw it out. (Here’s another vinegar recipe.)

Dandelion leaf pesto

To make a nutrient-rich superfood pesto, simply replace the basil with fresh Dandelion leaves, a combination of spinach and other dark leafy greens, and whichever fresh aromatic herbs you enjoy. (Here’s a recipe.) Enjoy the pesto with breads, on pastas, in soups or salads, with eggs, etc.

ROOTS:

Fresh or dried Dandelion roots can be made into tinctures, teas, vinegars, and more. To make a liver-loving dandelion root tea, you’ll want to decoct either fresh or dried root pieces (decocting simply means to simmer them on the stove for 15+ minutes). Some people like to chop up the fresh root and roast it in the oven until it’s brown and nutty, then use the roasted pieces for tea. This makes a lovely coffee alternative.

Roots are typically harvested in the fall once the leaves have begun to die back. To harvest the root yourself, simply dig it up using a small shovel or trowel and wash away the dirt. If you’d like to use the root for tea, I recommend chopping it while it’s still fresh. Then you can either dry it by using a dehydrator or placing it in a dark, warm, dry place for several weeks. You can also roast it or make a decoction with the fresh pieces.

If you’d like to make a Dandelion root tincture with fresh roots, simply place the chopped pieces in a jar, cover them with 80 proof alcohol, and let sit in a dark and cool place for 2-6 weeks. Strain the tincture and use it as needed. (If you have more specific questions about dosing, etc., feel free to contact me.)

FLOWERS:

The flowers are also edible and are a rich source of xanthophylls (a yellow carotenoid/flavonoid also known as an antioxidant phytonutrient). Some folks make dandelion wine with the flowers, others make Dandelion fritters. I like to simply add the petals to salads as a colorful garnish.

When used topically, the flowers have a similar effect to Arnica blossoms. Infused into an oil and massaged into the tissues, they relieve pain and tension, as well as support lymph clearance around the breasts, armpits and neck. To make your own infused oil, fill a jar with fresh blossoms and cover them with your oil of choice (I like to use olive oil). Place the uncovered jar into a warm oven (about 110° to 120° degrees) and leave them infusing for about 12 hours, stirring every few hours. Strain and you have your very own medicinal body oil.

(Here are some more very magical-looking Dandelion recipes.)

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Joy is not made to be a crumb.

To end this little ode to Dandelion, I’ll leave you with a poem from Mary Oliver, queen of finding abundance and soul-nourishment in the everyday world around her.

Don’t Hesitate

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

Love, Clare and the Dandelions