I love dandelions.

My husband does not. He’s a lawn mowing enthusiast and, to him, dandelions are nothing more than pesky weeds that warrant expedient removal.

He tells me they’re obnoxious.

I tell him they’re pretty.

I don’t know how to explain that dandelions are far more than pretty.

How they’re determined.

Resilient.

Tenacious.

How they keep rising up to return no matter how much they’re ripped away, no matter how much of a chance they’ve had to grow before somebody comes along to try to beat them down again.

How with every dandelion that is lucky enough to survive to the point where they go to seed, it’s like they win the lottery; a single mature dandelion gets to spread hundreds of seeds, make a difference as far as the wind will take them along for the ride.

Then it’s over for them; they never know the influence they have on the earth at large, they only know that they must do their best to grow. They keep going, when they have no idea what the finish line looks like or even where it is.

Oh, how brave dandelions are!

My husband is loving and patient and kind and endlessly supportive. But he isn’t really the type to wax poetic about things, especially not seemingly ordinary things. I’m not sure my husband would quite understand all these truths about dandelions. I am certain he’d quirk his eyebrow at me if I said I felt a kinship with blossoms that he sees as a stubborn nuisance, ones that aren’t deferential enough and simply refuse to die.

Fact is, I was a stubborn nuisance too, once. I wasn’t deferential enough too, once.

I’ve refused to die, much much more than once.

So I just say they’re pretty.