Walking in early spring--consider the marsh marigolds

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin..."                       -Matthew 6:28

As with the rest of Asheville, Rose and I have been getting out more this week with the warmer weather.  Yesterday I walked and she roller skated one of our favorites--Reed Creek Greenway which runs alongside Broadway and Montford.  We cross Broadway, skirt UNCA's Botanical Gardens and then connect up with their Glen's Creek Greenway to Merrimon at Luella's Barbecue then back.  I think it's about three miles total, a nice jaunt.

Rose is learning to use the rollerskates she got for Christmas, so yesterday we stopped often.  Along the bank of Glen's Greek, there was a particularly picturesque section scattered with what we initially thought were dandelions.  But, we quickly realized they were something else.   There were also clumps of daffodils sprinkled through; we've recently begun to call these "Daffo-down-dillys" after reading Secret Garden.  We love fun names. Perhaps the daffodil clusters were remnants of old homesteading activity.  I've read that they last generation after generation, long after homes are gone.  Or maybe the bulbs relocated after washing down the creek during a storm.

I remember reading in some local history that Glen's Creek was once very polluted and smelly.  Now this creek and the greenway are mostly well-maintained.  It's particularly inviting where it runs through the Botanical Gardens.  Here it is shallow and wide, with large rocks to rest and linger.   We often see parents with young children wading there.  Yesterday there was an enclave of hippy-mamas picnicking on the grass nearby.
Ah, Asheville, ever keeps things interesting.

On the return leg, we stopped by the Botanical Gardens Gift Store in hopes of identifying the shiny yellow flower growing all along Glen Creek's length.  Ever the shopper,  Rose was motivated more by the "gift store" aspect than the identification, but you catch more flies with honey.

Unfortunately, the woman at the Botanical Gardens gift store had no clue or interest in the flower (ironic, but sadly unsurprising).  Instead, she awkwardly directed us to a series of large posters that catalog the various flowers in the garden family by family.   Asters, orchids, fascinating to me--not so much Rose--in the end, no matches.

Rose found a pencil made out of a twig, and I eventually tracked down the correct identification in one of the field guide books there.  For the record, I believe it to be a variant of a marsh marigold---caltha palustius L.  As often happens, Rose and I waged battle over her latest hope of purchase, the twig pencil.  I won the skirmish, but the fallout was covert sulking.  I stopped to enthusiastically inform the gift shop lady that we had finally figured out the flower--marsh marigold--but she still had no interest, just polite but blank eyes, a pat "oh, good."

I've thought through this before---are my expectations too high?  Does it really matter if we know the flower's name?  Why are some humans so eager to categorize and label and others could care less.  Is it some kind of latent desire of dominion (Adam named the animals) or the beginning of a journey to better understand something?

Certainly, we can enjoy a nameless flower or bird. Often these finds are more intriguing for the not-knowing.   They lend an air of discovery to things, as if we are among the first to notice.

There is also an enormous educational lesson in teaching curiosity---teaching children and ourselves to slow down, ask questions, and wonder about the world around us--in this case, a flower.  It forces us to notice the details: kidney leaf shape, nine petals not five, shiny petals, fuzzy center thing, and what's that part called again?  It initiates a mental and sometimes literal dialogue.

Next we were thinking more precisely about the time of year (early spring) and growing conditions (sandy soil, near a stream). Quick research this morning even brought a wisp of Latin into things as "palustris" translates to "swampy, marshy, or of wet places."  Yes, they flourish happily by the stream.

This morning, I learned that if I were a bee, I would see the yellow marsh marigold as purple and yellow because the upper portions of the petals appear as ultraviolet "bee purple" to them. This could lead us into a study of the light spectrum, of the differences in color and color perception.  Because I read an article about dandelions as important early spring pollinators last week, I could also teach that the marsh marigold is important to insects in this regard.

Some people find this type of teaching too unquantifiable, messy, or even sideways energy.  But, I've found many of our brightest educational moments in stopping to wonder, in following the muddy path of serendipitous curiosity.  I often remind myself that I am modeling a way of  seeing, of learning,  of being curious and engaged.  The best learning is not isolated chunks of processed knowledge distributed in a classroom and regurgitated for a test, but is interconnected to the larger world and stems from a sense of wonder---that leads to a question---that leads to research---that leads to more questions, more wonder:

To see what is in very front of us--to be present today, to not have blank eyes.