Columbine revisited

There is a flower blooming in my garden that every time I mention it or show it to people they shudder: columbine.

The name has been stolen.

Try Googling “columbine.” You won’t find a mention of the flower until at least 4 pages in, and even then it is an entry from the BBC – some where across the ocean where columbine doesn’t grow (naturally, anyway.)

Columbine in native to the Rocky Mountains, from Arizona all the way up into the Yukon Territory.

That’s where I found her: I was 13 and exhausted from a 16 mile trek with a heavy backpack somewhere in the Wyoming mountains. My earth science class (back in the days when Minnesota paid for summer education programs) was forced to take a longer-than-expected hike when our bus broke down. I hated life. I could only walk a few paces uphill, then stop and gasp for breath.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, the trail stopped climbing uphill. It opened into a vast flat meadow. And there they were: columbine by the thousands, maybe millions. It was a jaw dropping sight: so much beauty after so much pain. And a strange thing happened: I forgot that I was tired and sore. My legs found a new strength. The climb had been worth it.

I keep columbine in my garden to remind me of that day.

Maybe other people should too. Maybe if everyone grew columbine, a flower would move up the entries of Google and replace a massacre. Maybe there would be a whole meadow of millions of columbine: pain replaced by beauty. Not to forget, but to remember that life is about those rare beautiful moments and we can still experience them.