Dandelion Script

Like what is there to say when a dandelion breaks through the concrete?

Tim Barry


When I was small, I used to think like a child.

But now that I am big, I like to think that I think all grown up.

Grown up from a long time ago when I remember asking my mom how many days left until my birthday and in my mind’s eye, I could see my present.

And my present seemed to beckon me into the future and I wished that I could speed up time and I can remember back then that my mom said that there were five sleeps still to go. And five sleeps seemed like an eternity (and I don’t remember what I got that year anyway). But now that I’m big, five sleeps go by so fast that I’m not sure what day it is.

The days seem to merge.

Merge because pretty soon tomorrow will be today and today will be yesterday.

And yesterday is just a used up tomorrow.

And tomorrow is just a yesterday lying in wait.

And waiting is just being in a rush without going anywhere and that is something that the trees just don’t know.

They know that there is no need.

No need to question the beginning of the end, the end of the beginning they know the seasons in a way that we don’t. They don’t get confused between the end of the end of Winter and the beginning of the beginning of Summer.

It gets so confusing for us, we have a special season for it, called Spring which, I suppose, is our way of dealing with liminality of standing in the doorway.

And a warm day in Winter and a cool day in Summer might be the same temperature, but you can’t fool the trees.

Sometimes they just don’t do anything and know that there is a time to just drop their leaves.

Sometimes they know that they know that it is time to sink their roots down and get ready.

Season in and season out.

Season in and season out and the good gardener has a bit of dirt under her fingernails.

She knows where the miracles are

Like what is there to say when a dandelion breaks through the concrete?

The beginning of the end, the end of the beginning who can really tell? Being in the doorway – you are not what you used to be and not yet who you are becoming.

Becoming sad at saying goodbye to the old furniture and all the anticipation of how to furnish the new room.

I’m not who I used to be and I’ve forgotten about who you were before that.

And sometimes the smallest seed becomes the biggest tree – so big that you can shelter there.

And a grain of wheat has to die and fall to the ground and I’m not sure about where I began.