Sunlight in a Sieve
One summer, we had so much rain that after each cloudburst, our backyard would yield some wild plant we’d never seen before. Like fairies foraging deep in a forest, my sister and I would trek past our peach tree through overgrown grass to determine if what was growing was a weed, an herb, or some floral beauty with a penchant for medicinal properties.
After a few days of rain, one morning, the sun had finally broken through the clouds. And seemingly overnight, yellow dandelions sprouted within the greenery like round miniature suns. Every morning, when I opened my window, I would try to count the blooms. Losing count before I ever really could start, I’d think to myself, what can I do with all of these dandelions before the Texas heat exhausted them dry of their beauty?
I went on like this for a couple of days. Each daybreak, I’d open my window to the cheerful flowers swaying in the wind, seemingly a little taller and even more expansive than the day before. Finally, I’d had enough of the gazing and decided to forage. Gathering a palmful of flowers in each hand, I made up my mind to make honey.
The process was fairly straightforward:
Dandelions, as many as one could want (after a good rinse, of course)
Pure, unprocessed cane sugar,
Distilled or springwater
And a heat source to simmer it all together
As the water boiled and I dropped in dandelions one at a time, the color slowly began to change, reaching a sunlit shimmer to an entirely deep topazine hue. Within minutes, water with floating flowers became sweetened honey that tasted like spring on the taste buds.
I felt so accomplished that day, so elated that my backyard naturally yielded a source of joy, a moment of sweetness that lasted each time I made tea that week. In a small way, it made me feel capable.
I always fancied being entirely in control of each aspect of my life. The desire to feel capable most times outweighs reason. Most days, I consider myself wholly inept at managing the reins of life, and for the first time, I think I’m getting the hang of just existing.
It’s as if I woke up and decided I didn’t have to have everything figured out to an exact science. The poem didn’t have to make sense, and maybe the stanzas would come out a little wonky, but at least in the writing, it would have made me feel something.
Sometimes, the idea of living makes me numb. Amid work and staring at a computer screen for more hours than I’d like, it is as if all feeling is relegated elsewhere outside of my body. I wander around, trying to grasp wisps of living, which traipse through my hands like sunlight in a sieve. I see its beauty but can’t quite capture it.
Then, on other days, I see hope everywhere, like little dandelions popping up after a fierce rainstorm.
In all the yellow blooming within the green, I somehow forgot to smell the flowers–to savor the sweetness of the petals, to make honey in the midst of worrying. I am slowly learning to worry less, to open my windows and let the sun stream in, warming the parts of me that need it most.
