down of a thistle

On my way to the Oversight meeting, I was delayed in road construction for 40 minutes. I knew this was going to happen, so it didn’t perturb me. I was already uneasy about other matters, and a big ugly ball of feelings seethed in the pit of my stomach.

I closed my eyes briefly and prayed about what to do with all those feelings.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a fairy drift by.

We called them fairies when I was a child, the seeds of star thistles. When I see one, my childish heart leaps with wonder while the measured adult in me imagines future thickets of thorns.

Next to my stopped car, I saw several star thistles release their seeds to the August breeze. One or two fairies would emerge, spread their starry tendrils, and drift off. A lull, and then a few more baby thistles tried their luck.

I sat in that spot for 10 minutes, so I had a chance to contemplate thistles more deeply than I ever have.

Earlier pastoral people observed a lot more thistles than I, and they derived many lessons from them. The thistle motif is woven into our culture, but we might not have enough experience of real thistles to appreciate it.

The thistle plant is tough and thorny, much hated by gardeners and ranchers. It has a deep taproot, and it’s very difficult to remove. And yet, it produces these marvelous, ethereal, dancing seeds that children call “fairies.”

Thistle seeds are part of the food chain, much enjoyed by small seed-eating birds.

If the star thistle was the answer to my prayer, it was deeply enigmatic.

Perhaps I can take that ball of feelings and use them to strengthen my resolve, my grounding, my thorny lower branches.

Perhaps I can let that ball of feelings mature and watch them drift off in the wind.

Perhaps I am meant to see that I have looked at thistles from different perspectives and be mindful that people have their unique viewpoints and that I benefit from hearing the views of people who are very different from myself.

Perhaps I can see all those thistle seeds and realize that thistles have not yet taken over the world, that my fears often eclipse the likely future reality.

Perhaps I am meant to see that these thistle seeds can feed the birds that delight me during my morning tea breaks (and upon which my favorite sharp-shinned hawks in turn dine), and meditate on the wondrous transformations that are possible in life.

Perhaps the questions are more important than the answers.

Perhaps it’s more important to be willing to be open and guided by the thistles than it is to actually get the answer to my prayer.