"When the Wild Iris Blooms" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Yesterday, as I wandered through the garden paths, the brilliance of blue-violet caught my eye—a sudden shimmer against the green. I paused. There it was—the first wild iris of the season in bloom. Delicate yet strong, with petals like silk painted by twilight, the flower seemed to lift the entire garden into a moment of reverence. It was a quiet epiphany, the kind that calls not for words, but for presence.
The wild iris—specifically the Northern Blue Flag Iris (Iris versicolor)—is no stranger to the damp ditches and lakeshores of Northwestern Wisconsin. It grows with the confidence of something meant to be here, a native soul in the landscape. Though common in location, it is rare in beauty. Nearby, the elusive Dwarf Lake Iris (Iris lacustris) blooms only where sunlight meets shadow along ancient lakeshore forests. Both are silent witnesses to the rhythm of seasons, quietly blooming where they have always bloomed—regardless of whether we notice.
But the iris has long been noticed. Among the Ojibwe people of this region, the Harlequin Blue Flag Iris was not only admired—it was revered. Carried as a charm against snakes, used in poultices for wounds, steeped and crushed and inhaled to prevent illness, soothe aches, and even treat tuberculosis. Its scent, its root, its form—each part of the plant held meaning. Its usefulness arose not just from practicality, but from a deeper understanding of the natural world’s sacred intelligence.
Standing there, marveling at the bloom, I wanted to call out, “Look! Look at this lovely flower, this echo of history, this soft explosion of blue!” I wanted others to see its radiance, to feel the connection it offers—to culture, to earth, to spirit.
And then I heard the words of Thich Nhat Hanh gently rise in my memory:
“Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the whole earth revolves.”
The same could be said of looking at a flower.
Thich Nhat Hanh taught that mindfulness is not reserved for the cushion or the retreat, but belongs in every breath we take, every step we make. Walking, eating, even simply noticing—these become sacred acts when done in awareness. As I stood in my garden, breathing in the sight of that single iris, I was practicing exactly what he described: being alive to this moment.
And in this flower, the truth of interbeing revealed itself. The iris is not just a plant. It is sunlight, water, soil, memory. It is the breath of the deer who passed through last night, the blessing of the spring rain, the echo of Ojibwe hands who once carried it for healing. I, too, am part of this web, this living conversation of roots and sky. The iris blooms, and so do I.
In times as turbulent and uncertain as these, it becomes ever more vital to root ourselves in such awareness. Not as a form of escape, but as an act of resilience. As the world shouts and spins, we can choose to center ourselves in the simple miracle of now. We can allow beauty to strengthen us. We can draw courage from the deep traditions of those who walked before us, who knew that plants can be protectors, that silence can be medicine, that peace can begin with paying attention.
This morning, one wild iris bloomed. It was enough to remind me: everything is connected. Everything is alive. Everything matters.
“In some Native languages the term for plants translates to ‘those who take care of us.’”
~Robin Wall Kimmerer
~Wylddane
The wild iris—specifically the Northern Blue Flag Iris (Iris versicolor)—is no stranger to the damp ditches and lakeshores of Northwestern Wisconsin. It grows with the confidence of something meant to be here, a native soul in the landscape. Though common in location, it is rare in beauty. Nearby, the elusive Dwarf Lake Iris (Iris lacustris) blooms only where sunlight meets shadow along ancient lakeshore forests. Both are silent witnesses to the rhythm of seasons, quietly blooming where they have always bloomed—regardless of whether we notice.
But the iris has long been noticed. Among the Ojibwe people of this region, the Harlequin Blue Flag Iris was not only admired—it was revered. Carried as a charm against snakes, used in poultices for wounds, steeped and crushed and inhaled to prevent illness, soothe aches, and even treat tuberculosis. Its scent, its root, its form—each part of the plant held meaning. Its usefulness arose not just from practicality, but from a deeper understanding of the natural world’s sacred intelligence.
Standing there, marveling at the bloom, I wanted to call out, “Look! Look at this lovely flower, this echo of history, this soft explosion of blue!” I wanted others to see its radiance, to feel the connection it offers—to culture, to earth, to spirit.
And then I heard the words of Thich Nhat Hanh gently rise in my memory:
“Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the whole earth revolves.”
The same could be said of looking at a flower.
Thich Nhat Hanh taught that mindfulness is not reserved for the cushion or the retreat, but belongs in every breath we take, every step we make. Walking, eating, even simply noticing—these become sacred acts when done in awareness. As I stood in my garden, breathing in the sight of that single iris, I was practicing exactly what he described: being alive to this moment.
And in this flower, the truth of interbeing revealed itself. The iris is not just a plant. It is sunlight, water, soil, memory. It is the breath of the deer who passed through last night, the blessing of the spring rain, the echo of Ojibwe hands who once carried it for healing. I, too, am part of this web, this living conversation of roots and sky. The iris blooms, and so do I.
In times as turbulent and uncertain as these, it becomes ever more vital to root ourselves in such awareness. Not as a form of escape, but as an act of resilience. As the world shouts and spins, we can choose to center ourselves in the simple miracle of now. We can allow beauty to strengthen us. We can draw courage from the deep traditions of those who walked before us, who knew that plants can be protectors, that silence can be medicine, that peace can begin with paying attention.
This morning, one wild iris bloomed. It was enough to remind me: everything is connected. Everything is alive. Everything matters.
“In some Native languages the term for plants translates to ‘those who take care of us.’”
~Robin Wall Kimmerer
~Wylddane
RSS Feed