I love flowers and, of all flowers, I love wildflowers the best.
Wildflowers are hardy and persistent. They bring the birds and the butterflies. They show up in unexpected places. They hide in the crook at the base of the tree. They peek out from behind a rock. They paint the edges of the creek. They turn the field golden at the time of the harvest moon.
My Dad once said my Mom and I were “daisy pickers.” This was on one of our hikes as a family when I was young. I think he was impatient with our pace. I am sure we must have been stopping to look at the flowers and other wildlife. He might have wanted to get to the top of the mountain so he could sit down and eat lunch.
The place I live now used to be farmland. A short stretch of the running route is a country road. The grassy area along the road is filled with alfalfa, chicory, Queen Anne’s lace, clover and other wildflowers. One August day, a gold finch wearing his summer coat of bright yellow and black flew low over the alfalfa flowers just to my left. He blended in so well that I almost missed seeing him. I stopped to watch: grace in flight.
I figured something out that day watching the gold finch. My daisy picking gives me energy as surely as water and food do.