My absolute earliest memory of wildflowers is when my family and I made an afternoon jaunt to Beauvis Lake, AB. On this particular trip, we brought visiting relatives with us from Holland. With wild daisies blooming all over the place, my cousin and I had picked a few of them and braided them into crowns.
Wild daisy crowns. GypsySpirit was always there.
She was just waiting for me to recognize and welcome her.
Very soon after making these beautiful hair pieces, they wilted and died. So much beauty when connected to Mother Earth. So quickly to fail when pulled from their roots.
Wild flowers are one of my fondest memories of Ottawa, as well. The abundance and beauty and colour, it’s like nothing you can imagine unless you see it. For months on end, trails, parks, valleys, and the side of the road, the Nation’s Capital is abound with the most glorious of gypsy blessings in the way of wild flowers. At one point it was too much for me to handle, and I had to have them in my life, so I picked an arm full and by the time I got home… they were dead. I was literally distraught. I remember calling Mokey (my mama) and telling her what happened. I’ll never forget what she told me:
“Tootsamoots, wild flowers aren’t for picking, they’re meant to be free.”
And so it is with my wedding day.
It never occurred to me the meaning behind the flowers I chose. My personal bouquet was classic. Big, beautiful white roses. They were traditional. They were perfect. They were beautiful.
They were planted, farmed and grown to serve a purpose.
My wedding was traditional. The day was perfect and filled with overwhelming beauty. In our marriage, we have since built a foundation, grown as a couple and continue to serve as parents. All along the way, we pick at each other, change, fight, renew and replant. Always striving to have the biggest of rose gardens with the least amount of weeds. Our marriage requires pruning, plucking, and nurturing to ensure continued growth.
But what about the stuff that can’t be picked? In that big strong ole rose garden, is there not a beautiful little wild flower content with being left alone?
Although I strive to have the perfect garden, I am bursting at the seems with wild flowers and I have married a man who knows better then to challenge that which allows me to be internally free. I am a seeker of chaos. Where the wind blows, I run full force into it, laughing when my skirt flies up over my face. “Here comes Hurricane Mandy,” he’ll say. It is in those moments when I know I am truly me.
Although the manStar strives to be Master of his garden, he too is filled with a wild flower or two. A gift for no reason. A story about his childhood. Play by play re-enactments of sets played in games 20 years gone by. In these quiet moments, I am reminded of what my mother taught me. I can either tell him I don’t need him going through all the moves played in a game when he was a boy, and watch his wild flowers wilt. Or... I can sit and listen with open an heart, knowing that these moments are just for me.
As for my #idoredo, I think this time around I will surround myself with an abundence of floral unpredictability to honour the Spirit within.
Unpicked. Beautiful. Strong. Free.
Duende,
Amanda
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PC: The picture used in today’s blog is of the miniStarlites May pole. Can you tell by the collection of flowers the intensity with which I love her?