Poppies, cornflowers, and the way we live

For this month only, I am (again) living on a small island in the center of Denmark. Once a day (or so), I bike down to the rickety bathing pier and dive in. I could do a whole post about the deep breathing and joy that comes with going into fairly cold water, but I’m not winter bather — at least not yet — and I don’t want to pretend that I am.

On the way there, I pass by fields of what I think is maybe rye, speckled with violet cornflowers and edged with masses of bright orange poppies. I am not usually here in early June, so it is a long time since I had seen this particular combination: the strawy greenish of the crop, the deep blue of the cloudless skies, the violet and orange of the flowers. It feels magnificent in its day-to-day ness. The Danish landscape is not spectacular as much as joyous, peaceful, quiet. That’s quite ok: I kinda prefer.

Here’s what came up for me yesterday as I biked by.

Did you know that you can’t pick poppies? They don’t function well as cut flowers. Once you sever the connection to their roots, the beautiful bright leaves fall off. You can transfer poppies, roots and all, to a pot for your garden or home, but you cannot cut them off from their roots. What’s more: if you keep them well-rooted, they are extremely resilient and hardy. There is such an obvious metaphor in this that I will not even bother to type it out. But it resonates deeply, as an uprooted, many-times-re-rooted plant myself.

It also feels significant at a broader level: as we continue with our forward-growth-at-all-costs-linear-development model, are we cutting ourselves off from our roots? Is all the burn-out and discomfort the consequence of us not taking the time to bring ourselves along? Would we be stronger, more resilient, impossibly hardy, if we took the time to connect to where we come from and who we are?

I think I knew the answer to this question before I even asked it.