I went to get my Peterson’s Field Guide to Birds recently to identify a transient bird in the back yard, one not often seen. To my increasing dismay, I could not find it on the shelf and feared perhaps I had accidentally given it away when we donated 18 boxes of books recently. When I found it at last, I nearly wept with relief. If you think that’s a little overwrought for a bird identification book, you’d be right.

When my older three siblings were in their senior year of high school, they each received a copy of Peterson’s Field Guide to Birds from my dad. None of us were really as interested in bird watching as my dad and I think that by the time I graduated, he had decided that his traditional gift was a complete dud and probably not valued much by the recipients. He was a quiet man and quietly stopped the tradition, assuming it wouldn’t be missed. Not so. I had no more interest at that time in a bird identification book than my older siblings, but I knew that they had gotten one and the gift seemed an important and sacred rite that had passed me by. In addition, the book symbolized the gift of himself, a sharing of something that was interesting to him and that he thought might be useful for us to have. Most of the gifts we got came from both our parents; this was the only time I can remember our Dad giving us something just from him. When I went to him and asked why I hadn’t gotten one, he was flabbergasted that I’d even noticed. I can’t help but think he was pleased to have been asked. In short order, I received my copy and many years later even started using it, but the most valuable part of it to me is this:

It is irreplaceable.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

I’ve got what you might call a bleeding heart. I’m so sensitive to the feelings of others that sometimes I wonder if I’m half Betazoid, like Deanna Troi. It’s not always a bad thing; you’ll want me in your corner when you’re going through a hard time. I’ll ache for you, I’ll cry with you, I’ll pray for you, I’ll lose sleep with you… But there are times when I wish my heart had more protective covering, that I didn’t feel the pain of others so keenly. And being so sensitive also means that I’m easily hurt, a fragile flower.

The actual definition of a someone with a “bleeding heart” is one who shows extravagant sympathy. Extravagant. That sounds like more than most of us have to offer. I can cry with you, but that’s not extraordinarily extravagant. If you want extravagance, go to the cross of Christ, to the Man with the true bleeding heart. His blood can do a lot more for you than mine.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

Well, now you know that I use Pic-Collage. I don’t pay them anything, so I guess they’re entitled to a little free advertising to the half dozen or so people who read my blog.

But what I really wanted to talk about is writing. And dandelions. And Cinderella. With a little writer’s prestidigitation, I will pull a scarf out of my sleeve that manages to link these together.

I’ll admit to having a somewhat fanciful imagination. I suggested a writing assignment for Pete when he was 6 or 7 that went thusly: “Write about a brand new pencil in a store and how it feels sitting on the shelf waiting to be purchased.” When I was a child, I would have been all over that assignment like hair on a gorilla. Pete gave me a look that said two things at once: 1. What kind of tom foolery is this? and 2. I am NOT doing this. As looks go, it was fairly eloquent. He turned out to be a great writer, but this kind of thing was not his muse.

But I’m still inclined that way. So when I saw a dandelion this morning, I began thinking about how beautiful they are and yet how overlooked and even reviled. People just don’t routinely grow these buttery blossoms for bouquets. Dandelions don’t get invited to the ball (See? We’re getting there!). And when God turns their yellow rags into a gossamer gown worthy of a grand event, the clock is ticking. At midnight, the wind blows, and the gown is gone.

Some of you are thinking, “What kind of tom foolery is this?” I’ll answer that: it’s my kind.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.