Flowers inspire emotion. This past week, we invited our neighbors for dinner on the patio. He came in carrying a pie and she came carrying a beautiful arrangement of dahlias that she had grown in the back yard. I love pie, but my heart went immediately to the flowers. They are stunning and they sing of friendship and thoughtfulness.

Earlier in the week, I had the good fortune to host a meeting at the Missouri Botanical Garden. As a bonus, I was introduced to the therapeutic horticulture department. I was fascinated to find out that the team works across the city with hospitals and social services to provide plant therapy. Working with plants by planting, arranging, smelling, and preparing is proven to release stress and promote good health benefits.

As we toured the sensory garden, I was introduced a plant that smelled like popcorn and other that smelled just like pancakes smothered in maple syrup. Rubbing my fingers over the lemon verbena, made me smile as I remembered the many Christmas mornings that I have opened lemon verbena soap and bath salts (my favorite). The smell of plants or the sight of a flower can bring a flood of memories.

Plants are involved in the most important moments of our lives. I can recall in great detail bridal bouquets from family weddings. Mine were made of stargazer lilies. Glorious white blooms on a background of dark green leaves. Simple daisies wrapped in lace. Cascading roses. Tulips in pink and yellow.

The wonderful blanket of peonies on my grandmother’s casket would have made her smile. She always grew them in her garden and we would laugh as we shook out the ants. As I’m writing this, I am looking at a very large pot of shamrocks co-existing with a peace lily. The shamrocks were from my grandmother’s back porch. I thought I killed them and put the pot in a storage room. When I got married, my husband had a peace lily that someone had given him at the death of a friend. It needed to be replanted, so I used the dirt I found in the old clay pot in storage. Much to our surprise, the lily grew and the shamrocks began to appear. Thirty years later they are still co-existing, still blooming, still growing.

In the wild, the flowers are symbols of beauty, tenacity and hope. Consider the wildflowers blooming on the rocks. Hardy blooms fight the wind and the cold for their moment in the sun. Blooming trees, and bushes, and even weeds. Bursts of color in an otherwise subdued landscape. Reminders that there is beauty in the world if we only look. Harbingers of friendship, peace, and happiness.

I’ve heard the saying, “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” A few weeks ago, I heard an old song that proclaimed that the secret to life was, “faster horses, younger women, and more money.” This week I had several encounters with the wild horses of the Ozark Scenic Riverways.

As we were arriving at Echo Bluff campground, the herd appeared on the roadway in front of us. There were about ten beautiful horses and a few colts. They took up most of the road as they made their leisurely way down the winding road toward the campground. We followed slowly in the RV, pleased to catch a glimpse of the elusive creatures. About halfway down the hill, a large and noisy truck approached from the opposite direction and in a moment they were gone. The lead stallion quickly lead the herd into the woods.

The next afternoon, we decided to head into Eminence for food. As we were leaving the park, the horses were standing in a sunken meadow grazing. Partially hidden, they were enjoying the afternoon in a shady spot next to a cool, spring fed stream with sweet grass. They were living their best life. I was grateful to catch yet another glimpse, because a single sighting is rare.

The following morning, I woke up early and went out to build my fire for coffee. Usually, I have early mornings to myself and my campfire, but there seemed to be an unusual amount of people up and about. After I got the fire blazing, I decided to walk to the bath house. All the people walking by had congregated in front of the bathhouse where the herd was grazing. A silver horse was eating the grass outside the nearest campsite. A half dozen white horses were down the hill with the foals. A large black stallion was standing guard in the road. And all the while, campers were standing in wonder at this unusual encounter with wild horses. People were whispering in excitement.

After watching the horses for a long while, I finally returned to camp. In the misty morning, the encounter seemed surreal. I filled my cup with heavenly coffee fresh off the fire and began to hum the tune to “faster horses” when I heard hooves pounding on the ground. Stampede. The horses came running through my campsite and on down the road between trailers. I sat stunned with a smile on my face.

The following morning, I got up early to make coffee (did I mention I make campfire coffee every day I am near a fire pit?). It was very foggy and misty. I heard a whinny, then a snort. I heard a stomp and a neigh. The horses were close. I sat down and slowly started looking around. They were standing on the other side of our RV by our truck. They were roaming around the area between our campsite and that of my sister/brother in law’s camper. The horses were talking to each other…. or maybe to me. A snort, a whinny, a neigh. I closed my eyes and just listened, wondering what they were saying. I whinny, a stomp, a snort. Endless munching of grass. Finally a scream and a stomp from the lead stallion came. The other horses fell silent. The black tossed his head and they began to walk down the hill. He stopped and they resumed grazing at the next nearest neighbor’s camper. After several minutes, the black screamed again and they began to run back into the forest.

That was the last I saw of the horses. The next morning, I could hear them far off in the valley. I knew their calls. The sounds of a herd of horses echoed through the hills. Sounds by no horses. We saw several piles of manure throughout the week to let us know they were around. Remnants of the herd on the move. Like ghosts of the forest, they were near but never sighted. A whisper on the wind. A memory to savor, beautiful and majestic.

Apparently, wild horses can keep me away. They kept me from making coffee, visiting the bathhouse, and from doing the work I had brought with me. I was too interested in watching them. They seemed docile from afar, but the lead horses were on guard and protective of the herd. No one was getting too close unless they wanted you to. Wild horses can keep you away. And upon further reflection, I think the country song was also wrong. The secret to life is not faster horses. It is watching wilder horses along a river. And of course it is never younger women. Older, wiser, outdoor sitting, campfire making, cast iron cooking women are obviously preferable. However, more money could fund more adventures with wild horses. So my song is now, “wilder horses, older and wiser women, and enough money to have adventures.”

Ever feel like you don’t quite fit in? That the rest of the world has a mold for human expectation and you don’t quite make the dimensional requirements? I think we all feel that way from time to time. When I hear the phrase, “Most people…” I cringe. It is offered up as an indictment that everyone else agrees on a behavior or preference and you don’t quite make the cut. “Most people wouldn’t eat that.” “Most people love chocolate.” “Most girls like to play with make up.” Slowly, I came to realize that I am not most people. I am me.

Early in life I began to notice differences. I loved to read in an age when watching television was the height of social interaction. My parents would make me come out of my room and watch TV with the family. On several occasions, I had elementary teachers object to my choice of reading material. They would hand me picture books, when I had been reading novels for years, and tell me that whatever they had picked was more appropriate for children. “Most children” did not read biographies and historical fiction from the main section of the library. Luckily, my parents were supportive of my desire to read. I tried to return the favor to our son. He loved to read science journals. His teachers would try to redirect him to picture books. He came home one day and said, “Butterflies and snow men, mommy. That is all they ever want to talk about. They want me to read about nonsense. I am not interested in talking rabbits. Why won’t they let me read what I like?” I had to make a few trips to school to help navigate the waters of “Most children.”

“Most women” and “most men” are also challenging concepts. As a young girl, I didn’t want to stay in and help with the dishes. I wanted to be outside stacking wood. I wanted to explore the outdoors, and pursue knowledge. Gender stereotypes were hard. A college professor once scheduled a meeting to tell me that I had the highest grade in the class and that I should think about getting lower grades because no one would want to marry me if I continued to out perform my male colleagues. “Most men” apparently don’t like smart women.

I’ve watched my husband navigate the waters of “Most men”. Apparently, they like to hunt and fish. He doesn’t. They like to do yard work. He doesn’t. They work on cars. He doesn’t. They like sports. Well, at least he has that going for him. …

I don’t like chocolate or gummy candies which can be easily found in every convenience store. I love Necco wafers which are increasingly hard to find. I don’t like meat. I like vegetables, especially spinach. This makes eating in a fast food restaurant a challenge. I don’t own tennis shoes because they hurt my feet. I prefer to wear high heel shoes and hiking boots. Supply chains that provide only what “Most people” buy are horrible for me. I don’t want and endless supply of yoga pants or mass produced fads. It seems that “most people” don’t share my tastes in food or apparel. Thank goodness for thrift stores and farmers markets. I find that I often cherish things that “most people” don’t want.

Over time, I have learned to embrace the notion that I am not “Most people”. I have come to appreciate that people are unique and that is what makes them wonderful. It is freeing to know that you can enjoy all the little things that bring you happiness without worrying about whether or not “Most people” also approve. So I comb resale shops to find the quirky items that speak to me. I wear dresses and fabulous shoes even though it is Tuesday and I’m only going to the grocery store. I sit in the park and read a book. I wear a headscarf covered in sea turtles into the woods to keep the spiders out of my hair because I inevitably will walk into a spider web…..and sea turtles make me happy. I am me, and it feels great. Now if I could only find a restaurant that sells gooseberry pie. It’s my favorite, but apparently not “most people’s”.

I love gatherings. But most of all I love gatherings that foster a sense of community. Gatherings that promote unity, coming together, and connections. These are hard to come by in modern American life. Sure, there are plenty of things to do and places to go. But intentional community wide celebrations are almost relics of another time. I wonder if the hit show Virgin River (Netflix) is popular precisely because it portrays a such close knit community.

In July of 2021, we stayed in Olafsvik, Iceland. It is a small town with only a few restaurants and accommodations. We arrived for a one night stay and we were fortunate on our arrival date. That evening the town was hosting its celebration night, which only happened once a decade, going back generations. Our host happily told us the whole town would be at the party and since we were in town, we should come too. For one night, we were part of the town of Olafsvik.

We went to the local restaurant and watched as the townsfolk started to assemble. As we walked, we noticed that different parts of town were decorated in different colors. People at the restaurant and on the street had on brightly colored T-shirts. The trickle of people because a river of arrivals. We followed the crowd to a tiny park on a hillside that overlooked the bay.

We figured out that each neighborhood was wearing a different color. Some neighborhoods arrived together in a parade. There was hugging and kissing and lots of Icelandic greetings. As we did not belong to a neighborhood or speak Icelandic, we took a seat to the edge of the park and watched the gathering. There were games where neighborhoods competed with one another. There were songs, sung at full volume. Since all the lyrics were in Icelandic, we have no idea what they meant, but I can tell you that “Oh, Maria” was a very popular chorus.

There was story telling and drinking. But most of all there was a community re-connecting. People had returned to the town after years away in order to re-establish their roots. Long lost friends were reunited. Families came together. The community was whole for one brief moment in time. Well in truth, the party went all night. It was summer and the sun didn’t go down. We left sometime after 1:00 am, but no one seemed close to slowing down. They had waited a decade for the gathering. The bonding was more important than sleep.

When I was a child, there seemed to be lots of opportunities to connect. We went on trail rides and hay rides. A community would organize a gathering in which a meal would be shared at a pre-determined location and everyone would ride on horses or wagons to the destination. Along the way, stories would be told and songs would be sung. Laughter and togetherness were the order of the day. There were church dinners where everyone would bring a dish and stories could be shared over fried chicken and jello salad. The Azalea festival would bring out the whole town with contests, parades, music, crafts and a carnival. But the real draw was the interactions with people.

There are still festivals and community events. I still try to attend as many events as I can, the feeling is different. Perhaps I am the one who has changed and become disconnected. Recently, we attended a community concert and fireworks event at the capitol grounds in Bismarck, North Dakota. It was a lovely event. We had a great time. While I did see some individuals and families connecting, on the whole, it seemed to be a gathering of individuals. Interaction among groups was minimal. People were polite. People enjoyed themselves. But there wasn’t a strong connection, it didn’t feel particularly communal. And yet, we all enjoyed a common experience.

Perhaps connection is a function of the size of the community. Perhaps lack connection is a symptom of societies divisions. Perhaps it is a direct cause. I hope that don’t withdraw into our own homes and social media circles and lose the connections and interactions that make a community. I can shop online. I can go into a store and check myself out with no need to interact. No need to have a human interaction. I can come and go as I please. I no longer even need to leave the house. I can go to church, visit the Doctor, work, and visit a museum all online….if I wanted to live that way. But, I don’t. I crave community.

I understand that humans were made for community. We need to belong, to be seen, and to be heard. We need to know our neighbor and see our family members. As a school administrator, I understood this need and worked hard to make sure that both students and staff knew that they were part of a special community. That they belonged, that they mattered and were seen and heard. They needed to understand that they were part of something larger than themselves. To that end, special celebrations and events were regularly planned. Relationships and shared experiences matter.

In order to break down isolation and divisions, we must all commit to connect. We have to build community one greeting at a time. Some communities have figured this out. You can feel it just by showing up. Olafsvik, Scott’s Bluff, Maplewood, Hilo….places that have left an impression. Humans are pre-disposed to sort and separate themselves, divisions are easy. Connections are harder. Communities must be built. I have challenged myself to be a community builder. I try to talk to teenagers that I see in town, to visit with sales people as I shop, to hear the stories of elders and children. I sign up for volunteer events, schedule lunch with friends, and to attend local gatherings as often as I can. It is easier now that I have retired, but has always been necessary. I wish I had realized my responsibility as a culture carrier and community builder earlier in life.

“To put down roots” is a phrase I’ve heard. It evokes the image of planting a garden. It suggests that life in a community must be tended. The people of Olafsvik understood this principle. Their gathering was magical, not because of food trucks or expensive entertainment. The magic came from the unity, the prioritization of community, and the simple connections. Let us tend our community garden. If necessary, I am willing to stay up all night with you singing, “oh, maria” (your on your own for the Icelandic parts). It will be worth it.

I used to look mother in disbelief when she said that she liked to do laundry. For me, a mother of two with a demanding full time job, laundry was a dreaded chore that had to be crammed into my weekend. It was always a scramble just to find all the pieces of clothing and towels scattered throughout the house. I used to walk through the kid’s rooms trying to decide if the clothes on the floor were dirty or just remnants of the clothes they didn’t bother to put away on the last laundry day. I’d sort the piles early on a Saturday morning and by that evening what wasn’t washed was jumbled all together in the hallway. Throughout the day, both kids and pets used the stacks as entertaining obstacles to jumped over or scattered.

As I got older, something changed. Laundry became a ritual, a preparation, an act of love. There is order in clean laundry. Laundry is personal and intimate. It is a way of caring for those you love. It meets a need. Warm laundry fresh out of the dryer carries the scent of family members. Their essence lingers in the cloth. It is comforting and familiar. It is grounding. Folding a t- shirt brings forth a memory of the day it was purchased or the last occasion on which it was worn. Clothes bring you in contact with personality. Stains, rips, and the contents of pockets tell a story. While it is not much fun on a day you forget to put the wet clothes in the dryer, clean laundry is satisfying. Something has been accomplished. Mom was right.

I love to mow the yard. When I say this, my husband rolls his eyes. I’m sure he is somewhere rolling his eyes right now. He swears that I haven’t mowed the yard in 20 years. While that is untrue, it is not far off. In the last decade, my job required way too many hours away from home. He was retired and he had time to mow. I did not. If he were writing this blog, he would tell you that he hates mowing. For him, it is an unwelcome chore to be avoided and accomplished quickly. For me it is a way to reconnect with the Earth and home.

Since I have retired, I have mowed each week (okay, twice…but that is all that has been needed. I promise). I happily put on my earphones, set my favorite music, and am queen of the zero turn lawn mower for the next few hours. The sun on my face, the smell of grass in my nose…I am close to the Earth. I am care giver. I am nurturer. I am mesmerized by the little variances I notice in the yard. Clover, mushrooms, wildflowers, crab grass, dirt patches, sticks, mole holes… our yard is wild and rough. I suppose we could hire a service to make it manicured and potentially more manageable, but I like the moss and the native plants. It seems real. It is ours. It is home. Mowing is an act of love.

I think my husband would tell you that I only feel that way because I am not the one doing the weed eating. He may have a point. But as I weed the flowers, the walkways, and the mulched sitting areas under our trees, I am peaceful. It is true that we procrastinate mowing in the heat on a hot Missouri day. We also prolong the time between major work days. The looming chore, an imposition, the potential for aching muscles…and, yet once I start the task is joyful. The zinnia’s in the back garden, the mint growing tall, the roses along the driveway all whisper to me. The grass tickles my toes and grounds me to this place.

I wonder, what makes the difference in my attitude? Is the task a chore or a privilege? Simple things that make a house a home. Common interactions must be done. Intentionally noticing the small things, makes all the difference for me. The satisfaction of a crisply folded garment, the smell of a freshly washed shirt, the lines that the mower makes on the lawn, the dark earth of a freshly weeded flower bed, are all simple tasks done in love. They are comforting rituals and reminders of family. The act of making a home is always a privilege. I hope I can continue to grasp that truth, even when the laundry is stacked up …and especially when it is 100 degrees with high humidity and grass is high. Although it is easier to be thankful when he is the one using the weed eater.

This photo, taken recently, is a favorite precisely because I was startled at the beauty of the bloom. I generally find cacti ugly, horrible little plants. They are designed to take in water and air while keeping everything else away. It is easy to be injured if you are not careful where you tread. Hiking boots and thick socks are a layer of protection. Spines make quick work of bare feet and flimsy sandals. How can a plant so shockingly aggressive produce such beautiful blooms? People, like cacti, are often prickly and aggressive. Yet others are beautiful and blossoming despite their harsh circumstances.

Lately, we have had a front row seat to encounters with prickly, horrible, ugly humans. My husband and I were recently wandering down the street in Rapid City enjoying the sculptures on each corner. It was a lovely morning. I saw an Uber pull over to let out the passengers. A pick up truck pulled up behind and began to honk. Although there was an adjacent open lane the truck could have easily moved into, the driver began to yell at the cab to move. The man getting out of the car waved and said, “It’s an Uber.” The truck then whipped around the Uber, pulled in front and threatened to get out and beat some manners into them for stopping in the lane he was in. The passenger said again, “I can’t control where the Uber let me out” and turned away. Truck driver turned red and got out of the truck yelling. A women and another very large man got out of the Uber. The larger man bulked up and indicated he would go take care of the rude driver. The women urged her male companions to walk away, saying “it is not worth it. Whatever he is upset about has nothing to do with you.” Luckily, the passengers had cool heads and walked away from a ranting and raging stranger. My husband and I were startled and unsure of what just happened. Confronted with a prickly and ugly stance, but pleased to see the beauty of calmer heads.

This past weekend, we ventured to Lowe’s to buy a new microwave. We needed some assistance before we made the purchase and got in line. While we waited for the salesperson to find our account, a woman walked in and pushed past me. She stepped in front of my husband and pushed our cart aside. When the sales clerk continued to assist us, the woman stomped and pushed past us. She went around to the side counter and demanded to see a manager. The manager was called and before he could get to the counter she was yelling. Red of face, she said “you people need to get you act together. I called and no one answered the phone.” The manager tried to ask a question but she continued to yell, “you have horrible service…I decided to drive over to see how busy you were and why you couldn’t answer my call. Get a different phone system. You are incompetent!” The manager said, “How can I best help you?” She snarled, “You can’t. I’ll take my business elsewhere. I just came in to make a point”and stomped out. Prickly…ugly….hard to watch. And yet the unruffled staff, continued to provide us excellent and polite service, despite the disruption.

As my husband and I processed what we just witnessed, we recalled an incident that happened some years back. We were in a Wendy’s having lunch when a man came storming in with a to go bad in his hand. He threw it on the counter and said he had just come in from the drive through. He yelled at the server that they didn’t make his sandwich correctly, that the meat wasn’t in the center of the bun. He said he refused to eat it until they remade it to his precise specifications of meat placement. We didn’t know whether to laugh or be very concerned at the amount of rage caused by a crooked bun. Sharp, off putting, and hard to listen to.

I think of those instances, and I wonder. Does the thorny, ugly, harshness of individuals come from lack of nourishment? Is it an environmental response, an adaptation like the cactus?Are people so starved for positive interactions that they lash out? Is there hope of a blossom? Can we effect societal change to instead produce blossoms? Do blossoms and spines always go together? Is the solution to get tougher skin and to protect ourselves with barriers or to provide more nourishment in the hope of producing blooms? It seems to me that humanity requires grace, just as cactus blossoms require water.

Beauty and grace. Ugliness and aggression. I guess each human, like each cactus, is unique. I just hope when people look at me, they see more blooms than prickly spines. I’ll keep working on it and hope that you will as well.