I have looked down on them from the disdainful heights of prejudice and irritation, but that wasn't always the case. I once saw dandelions as the most precious of flowers: wishmakers on slender stalks, eager for a gusty exhale, crowns and necklaces waiting to be knotted and formed from golden blooms beneath brilliant blue skies, bright dots of color shining amidst manicured green lawns. When did I begin to see myself as a weed? Something to change and prune and pull up and proffer to the "Jones' smiling with greenness but devoid of color and wildness and wonder.
I read recently that "ego" is not a noun, but a verb.
It is not the weed but the thrust to be rid of it.
So today I am a dandelion: a weed and a wishmaker, a flower and a nuisance, a frustration and a gift.