He loves me, he loves me not

There was a time when I spent hours amusing myself by plucking petals from daisies or blowing the seeds on a clock flower in an attempt to see whether he loved me or loved me not. I didn’t even need to have a ‘he’ – in fact,  ‘he’ was very often irrelevant. I was simply in love with the idea of being in love. Putting a name to my knight in shining armour too often robbed him of his gleam.

I haven’t seen a field of clock flowers in years and was quite surprised at my viseral reaction to the sight. Perhaps it coincided with my recent mourning for those days when time had a simple elegance about it that amounted to more than it being a tool for producivity. Perhaps it transported me back to those days when I had few responsibilities other than tidying my room and doing my homework (although that latter seemed like quite a chore at the time). Perhaps it played into recent day-dreams of escaping the sights and sounds of the city and living in the country.

I came across this site that deals in dandeloin folklore and amused myself for a while at the thought of modern-day love-lorn technogeeks casting aside their smart phones and reverting instead to nature…

Are you separated from the objective of your love? Carefully pluck one of the feathery heads; charge each of the little feathers composing it with a tender thought; turn towards the spot where the loved one dwells; blow, and the seed-ball will convey your message faithfully. Do you wish to know if that dear one is thinking of you? Blow again; and if there be left upon the stalk a single aigrette, it is a proof you are not forgotten. Similarly, the dandelion is consulted as to whether the lover lives east, west, north, or south and whether he is coming or not.’ 

Who needs Facebook and FourSquare?

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