On a Sunny Day
The entire backyard is FULL of thriving wildflowers as I type this. Pollinators of all sorts. During a tough time in my life, I bought a bunch of native wildflower seeds, and chaotic-good-manner sort of sprinkled threw them all over. Just add water, ha. Slowly and then...shockingly quickly...they arrived.
So many of them. So much life. So much beauty and nurture and vibrancy right in front of me. And I get to witness it all.
Some people might say dude, it's a yard or just a plant. That hurts me to hear but, well okay, partly true. To me it's a living being that actively helps the world we live in.
(As an aside - I also eat salads and meat so I fully contradict myself here, Walt said it better than I can.)
These plants were the one thing that didn't judge me. They asked nothing of me but water, the most basic need on this planet, and only for a short period. They listened to me, they were always there for me day or night.
They showed me beauty and what infinite generosity looks like.
The ones I loved most weren't as showy as the cosmos or zinnias. My most beloved ones don't seem to bloom, though I am sure I am likely incorrect on that front.
They don't seem to do anything but offer habitat for others.
Probably overlooked. Beautifully misunderstood. Quiet sacred generosity.
Those are the ones I would physically touch and talk to under the moonlight often.
Being spiritually honest, I saw myself in them. In the things people overlook, judge, think are useless or don't think they look the way they "should".
For a lot of my life I have felt like the "weed" or the "inconvenient wildflower".
I saw myself in them and they saw me.
It is my own yard, and I knew likely there would come a time others would want it, let's say, approached differently.
The mowing was coming. I could not save them. Not most of them... only the ones in the self-titled "wild zones" I protect.
I won't soften this part. I hate when the hard truth gets sanded down. They are alive and thriving RIGHT NOW at the time of writing. Most will not be when a motorized blade chops them into hundreds of pieces.
I used the word murder to describe what I felt was going to be done to them, in the days leading up to the mowing. I was using it in the literal term. No getting around it. Next time, perhaps a more... "strategic" word would be best.
I thought I'd be okay. I really did. I mean, it's a yard getting mowed right, what am I, nuts? I guess I didn't realize how strongly I felt about this.
So I went outside and took pictures of them. All of them.
I did that while crying the ugliest cry you've ever seen. All I could tell them was: I'm so sorry thank you I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry.
I took those pictures to remind myself life WAS here. And it was real.
Then I picked as many types as I could and used a flower press I have that I forgot about. Used it for the first time. While pressing them, I played them The Ink Spots' poignant song: "We'll Meet Again."
I'm sure you can probably guess the verse I kept repeating to them. 😊
We'll meet again. Don't know where, don't know when,
But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day.
Keep smiling through, just like you always do,
'Til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away.
Credit: 'We'll Meet Again', written by Ross Parker and Hughie Charles in 1939. The version I played them was The Ink Spots'. Thank you both for these words. They held me, and they held them.
The instructions on the flower press said give it three weeks. The ones I picked were mostly already dead or very dry, so I highly doubt they need that long. But in one of the few ways I can think of to honor all of them... I will wait the full three weeks before ever opening it.
During this period, I heard the most helpful thing I've ever heard about any of this:
The ones that get mowed are not meaningless. Some will come back. Some will feed the soil. Some already fed pollinators. Some already seeded. Some already gave you beauty when you needed it.
That counts.
Their lives were not wasted because they were temporary. All lives are temporary. That's not failure. That's a requirement of life.
One way or another, they are still being infinitely generous.
I promise this is not a pivot to selling my book. I have nothing to sell you or offer you. And I certainly do not have a book nor the talent to put a coherent one together, ha.
I say that because a while back, before the Drew-Wildflower-Saga, I built a free app called Weeds Are Friends. Now that I reflect on why I built it, it was the same thing.
I saw myself in them and they saw me.
So now I wait. The press sits here next to me, holding them. Three weeks, in their honor. When that time is up, I will update this page with a picture of them.
June 10th + 3 weeks.
July 1st, 2026.
We will meet again. I do not know where. I do not even know when. But I do know on a sunny day, we will meet again.
--Drew 🪷🌱☀️
