It has been a cool day, chill in the sunlight, the way one would expect at the end of September in New England. Yes, I know, but somehow it always is a surprise. And I love this weather, yet I am never ready for it.
Today I walked around the Pond again. I need to move and I need constructive rather than constrictive. So off I went. Before I got there, along the block with a high chain-link fence enclosing the woods that protect some upper-middle class enclave, I saw a dandelion. I just happened to glance down and saw it, growing through the fence toward the sidewalk. And I remembered the pleasure that both of my daughters have taken at liberating the tiny parachute seeds from the mother ship. Separated by decades, they'd run through field or yard and set those baby weeds free with such gusto and such a feeling of accomplishment. I couldn't bring myself to explain how little most folks appreciated these plants.
A sweet reverie, and there I was, dandelion ready to burst. I gave it a gentle nudge with my foot and set the seeds off on their journey. As I watched them float away on the chill September breeze, I noticed that some seeds had stayed behind. Were they not ready? Had the force of my foot been insufficient? Whatever it was, something kept them from leaving. Hum. I walked on toward the Pond. I found myself wondering what the difference was between those seeds that left and those that stayed. I've imagined all sorts of differences but I suspect it's nothing like I think!