Wisteria in the wild

And a poem for spring.

Hello there! And welcome to Dandelion Seeds, an illustrated newsletter in search of the magic in everyday moments.

Last week, I was biking home in Antwerp when the air was suddenly filled with the scent of wisteria.

I turned a corner and there it was, in what can only be described as a profusion of pale purple flowers. The wisteria had climbed up more than three stories of a building — covering its windows, encircling its small white door — and when I slowed down to take a picture, I could barely fit the riotous scene into one frame.

Whenever I see wisteria, I’m always reminded of one of the first essays I ever wrote for Dandelion Seeds. It’s about a poem I discovered that has since become one of my favorites, and while it isn’t necessarily about spring, it very much feels like it could be.

I hope you’ll enjoy revisiting it with me today, and if you have a moment, I’d love to hear what spring is looking like in your corner of the world.

With love,
Candace

Two springs ago, when Elena was a few months old, we went through a season of stroller naps. Her last nap of the day always seemed to work best on the go, so I would buckle her in, tuck a blanket around her legs, and head out into the cool, fresh air.

It just so happened that it was also wisteria season in our neighborhood of Montevideo then, and everywhere I pointed the stroller, we’d see beautiful, blooming vines — draped across the front gates of houses, adorning wrought-iron fences and trellises. My memories of our walks at that time will forever be colored shades of lilac and lavender.

But late one afternoon, as we walked along the edge of a small park, we passed a stand of towering pine trees. When I looked up, I was surprised to see wisteria there, too.

It was growing all over one of the trees, so that it was hard to tell where the pine branches ended and the pale purple blossoms began, like garlands of tinsel wrapped around a Christmas tree. And it was all backlit by the setting sun, whose soft golden rays made the scene feel like a painting.

As I stood there, I thought of a poem I’d recently discovered, via the wonderful Poetry Unbound podcast — “Lost,” by David Wagoner, which he based on the teachings of Native American elders in the Pacific Northwest:

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

In the early days after Elena was born, I often felt a little lost and out of my depth — figuring out when she should nap; trying to fix 4am wakings; wondering how to still be a good friend, sister, daughter, wife, when being a mom felt all-consuming.

But that afternoon, the wisteria winding its way through the pines was not lost on me, and that felt like something.

And just maybe, it was everything.

Wisteria in the wild in Montevideo, Uruguay.