Dandelions litter our lawns, believed to be a weed that withstands the most difficult of conditions and continues to appear in even the most cared-for yards. In time, the once vibrant yellow flower becomes a fragile, white globe of feather-like seeds. Do you remember carefully picking the thick green stem as a child, holding the white puffball in your hand, making a wish, closing your eyes, and blowing the feather-like strands into the wind? Weren't we pretty sure our wishes would be heard and answered?
Dandelions are like the unrelenting chaos of grief, popping up without warning at unexpected times and places. We dread a lawn full of dandelions. We fear a time when grief takes over our lives. Both often happen without warning; both, in time, evolve. Once acute and all-consuming, our grief becomes softer, something we learn to carry. The Dandelion into a white globe containing hundreds of seeds reminds us that more lies beneath what we see.
When you visualize a dandelion, is it the bright yellow flower or hundreds of seed strings hanging on tightly to the center? When you visualize your friend who experienced profound grief, do you imagine them to be the same or someone desperately trying to hold onto the strings of their life?
Maybe a Wind Phone is as magical as making a wish and blowing it into the wind. There was a time we believed the wind would take our wishes; I chose to believe that again.