Your weeds might be flowers

"The only difference between a flower and a weed is judgment." -Wayne Dyer

Joey (left) and Auggie (right) holding their “bouquets of flowers” they picked for me. August, 2024. (Joey wasn’t up for the photo, so he doesn’t look happy. I assure you, when he gave me his offering, he was delighted.)

For an audio version of this essay, please click below.

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About a week ago, I fumbled with the van door, and something prickled my shin. Lovely, I thought, when I noticed the culprit: overgrown thistles in our front flowerbed, the one adjacent to our driveway. It has become an eyesore, at least when I pay attention to it.

Because I’ve neglected to prune and pluck the choke weed and crabgrass and apparently, thistle, our day lilies did not bloom this year. And the kwanzaii cherry tree Ben planted for a Mother’s Day gift a few years ago is now competing for precious soil with these invaders.

I can’t stand outdoor gardening, though I love all living things connected to earth and sky: frequent sightings of red-tailed hawks, a patch of volunteer chives on our side yard, the early spring wildflowers that sprinkle our garden with delicate dots of white and lavender. My reason for avoiding any sort of landscaping has to do with my loathing of weeds.

I can’t stay atop the necessity of regular weeding. As a result, I do nothing. I allow nature to do what it will, and then I hate what the consequences are.

Imagine, then, my reaction when my two boys—Joey, age five and Auggie, age four—bounded into the house on a Saturday afternoon, dirt caking their cuticles and chubby little hands squeezing…a handful of weeds.

There were sprigs of dandelions, a few blades of grass that had begun to bolt, and a patch of sweet clover.

Naturally, I accepted their gift, because how could I not? “Mom,” Joey said, beaming, “I picked you some flowers, because I love you.” Auggie parroted his older brother, and they both leaned in for a hug.

“Thank you, boys, these are lovely!” I lied.

“Can we put them in a vase?” Joey asked.

I paused a moment, because why in the world would I want to display these visual atrocities? “Well, not a glass vase, but you can find a plastic cup in the kitchen and fill it with some water if you want,” I told them.

The boys eagerly made their way into the abyss of the cupboards and unearthed one orange and one yellow plastic kiddie cup. At the time of this slight interruption, I was in the thick of my daily journaling and had gotten into The Flow. My mind—and sadly, my heart—was elsewhere.

But then Joey returned, Auggie by his side, and he proudly shoved the cup filled with water and weeds in my face. “Mom, look! I’m going to put these on your desk by your computer, so you can see them every day.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you, buddy. That’s very sweet of you.”

This time I didn’t lie.

Auggie mumbled something about wanting to put his bunch on the kitchen table, so that “everyone can see them at dinnertime.” Oh, goody.

I agreed that was a good idea, though secretly I was cringing.

As a mom, I find myself frequently saying or doing what I know is the right thing, but my insides are flip-flopping with anything ranging from mild irritation to full-blown panic. I’ve thought about this a lot these past thirteen years, as in, why am I like this? Why can’t being a good mom come easily to me? It seems that there’s an interminable battle between my internal reaction to most of what my kids do, versus my outward behavior.

So, I let those weeds (“flowers”) sit on my desk and on the kitchen table. I didn’t get rid of them, because I wanted to figure out what lesson I was meant to learn from all of this.

There was a time when Felicity and Sarah were very small, and Felicity often reveled in the wild dandelion fields at our neighborhood park. When she was nine years old, I stumbled upon this quote attributed to B. Atkinson:

And the dandelion does not stop growing, because it is told it is a weed. The dandelion does not care what others see. It says, ‘One day, they’ll be making wishes upon me.’

Afterwards, I scribbled this in my notebook:

I see dandelions as pesky weeds that keep spreading every time my girls scatter their seeds with their breath. I’m not viewing the beauty or even the economy of a dandelion (as in, that the leaves, when tender, are edible greens). Instead, I’m left with the dirty work of getting rid of them before they take over our yard.

Still, my girls think they’re flowers that can be given as presents. So they pick bouquets of them and bring them to me. Of course, they’re wilted within minutes.

But today I remember that I am like the dandelion. Each one of us is. We bloom in the gardens where we’re planted. I see the weed; someone else notices the flower. I see the mess; others see the bounty. I am a seed, and that seed is cultivated into something beautiful, however simple, because it is loved.

Each time I passed my desk with the plastic cup displaying the conglomeration of nature’s curse to landscaping, I remembered the concept I’d written about dandelions five years ago. I remembered, too, that it takes a child to remind me that living things are beautiful because they exist, not because of what they look like or for their function.

It’s important for me—vital, even—to stop basing my feelings or opinions or perception only on what can be observed. If I thought of humans the way I do weeds, as invasive and disgusting and annoying, I would never be able to come close to them. I wouldn’t give them a chance to tell me their stories, to recognize their value and purpose.

So, too, with weeds versus flowers: I can shift the narrative. I can reframe my viewpoint from frustrated and overwhelmed to curious and open-minded.

Now, I’m not going to be a purist with this philosophy. I realize that there are some plants we want in our gardens, and others we don’t. We can’t let everything in our life remain as it is, without consideration or thoughtful pruning.

But maybe there’s a way to nurture the beauty we want and need in our life, while also respecting the parts of nature we dislike without harming them: plants, animals, and humans.

My default was to recoil on the inside when my boys showed me their outdoor findings. I didn’t like what I saw. But they did. They selected each “flower” with great love in their hearts, and it was the love that made their offering one I couldn’t refuse. Because it softened my heart.

Anything, when given in love, is beautiful.

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If you enjoyed reading this essay, feel free to check out others I’ve written with similar themes:

1. I chose my son, and his life saved mine: Everything becomes a gift if we let it: the tears, the broken hearts, the long nights. In this essay, I share about my difficult, surprise pregnancy with our fifth child, Auggie, and what his life has taught me about mine.

2. “I’m thankful Sarah looks different and I want everyone to love her: Joey’s simple prayer inspired my essay on what it means to be our truest self.

3. Permission to be who you are is empowering: When we give voice to the truth of our lives, we gain clarity. Another lesson from Sarah.