For the past several years, I have been pining for a wildflower garden on our farm. Our farm manager, The Sheriff and his father, the Mayor are passionate about order, so they have resisted. They love the clean, organized lines of a freshly mowed lawn. Acres and acres of green, tidy pastures adorn our farm and I, too, love it. It is soothing, predictable, orderly. 

But I have been yearning for an unrestrained, wild, colorful field of wildflowers out there ... and this past summer, I got my wish. I finally convinced my husband, The Land Baron, that, of our expansive acreage, we could spare a small patch to indulge my floral fantasy. We walked around the property, trying to find the right location that was out of the way of farm duties like feeding horses, hauling hay, and spreading manure, but in the line of sight from the house. We found a perfect spot, just beyond our vegetable garden, down a slight swale.

The next day, our farm neighbor (a real farmer, not a poser farmer like us) volunteered his services. He dredged a patch of grass, turning over the rich soil beneath it. He then tamped it down and scattered the seed evenly over the roughly 20’ x 60’ area. “Now we wait,” he said. It was all up to Mother Nature to water and feed the field with sunlight.

By mid-summer, the field indeed came to life. And it was glorious. Red, blue, purple, orange, and pink flowers were in a cascading cycle of bloom. The juxtaposition of my wildflower meadow’s wanton disorder against the tidy green acreage around it framed it like a green matte, making a stunning piece of art. Every time we came to the farm this past summer, I immediately went to visit my wildflower field to cut flowers. Sure, there are weeds in there, but honestly, aren’t weeds just wildflowers with better PR? Unlike my more manicured garden at home, in this garden I leave the weeds alone. Live and let live.

Songbirds, hummingbirds, bees, praying mantis and more began visiting. But my favorite interlopers are the butterflies. These silent, beautiful beings are like quiet angels amongst us. Seeing a butterfly in nature is akin to seeing a rainbow; it induces delight and awe in everyone. I think of the Monarch butterfly and its extraordinary migration from North America to Mexico every year. I just found out that in fact, no individual butterfly completes the entire round trip. It is more like an insect relay race, with female monarchs laying eggs for a subsequent generation during the northward migration.  Four generations are involved in the annual cycle. (Talk about logistics!) One of the reasons I wanted that wildflower garden so badly was because I know that Monarch populations were dwindling because of loss of habitat. And so, I am happy to help those brave little travelers by planting a lovely rest stop on their butterfly highways.

When my kids were little, we had a special interaction with a butterfly. Each winter we would make a yearly pilgrimage to Butterfly World in south Florida while we were there visiting my in-laws. Butterfly World is essentially a zoo for butterflies, with enclosed atria housing species from all over the planet in simulated natural habitats. One year we bought a butterfly chrysalis to bring home and watch the miracle of rebirth that happens as the insect sheds its old way of life and emerges resplendent, transformed, victorious. About a week after bringing the chrysalis home, my toddler daughters and I sat transfixed for hours – or at least I did – as the insect started the slow, miraculous process of emerging from its hibernation. The girls ran in circles, squealing, driven crazy with anticipation and frustration, while I kept them from trampling the fragile little guy. When the butterfly finally completed its transformation, it sat for a while, all wet and gooey, drying its wings in the sun. And then, it was off ...

Over the last few weeks this fall, my beautiful wildflower meadow has had a burst of colorful energy. With the end of the season nearing, it’s been like a grand finale of explosive color: cosmos, New England Aster, Milkweed, Coreopsis and Cornflower have been giving it their all before settling down for a long winter slumber. Like all autumn color, I find it bittersweet. It is delightful in the moment, but we all know there are darker days ahead.

In the midst of this wretched pandemic time, I find myself, like my daughters with the butterfly, running in circles from the frustration and angst of just wanting to get on with it already. I’m having trouble writing, thinking creatively and being patient. Perhaps I should stop trying to make orderly, well-manicured sense of this time and just let it all go. Maybe, it’s best to take a cue from that butterfly and that wildflower field and pull in, cocoon myself emotionally and creatively, let the field of my mind lie fallow and metaphorically fall back into the earth. To just be still and ... wait.

Perhaps this time of isolation, contraction, and withdrawal will reveal something beautiful on the other side?

At the very least, there will be a wildflower garden to look forward to next spring.