“A man who took great pride in his lawn found himself with a large crop
of dandelions.
He tried every method he knew to get rid of them. Still they plagued him.
Finally he wrote the Department of Agriculture. He enumerated all the things
he had tried and closed his letter with the question: “What shall I do now?”

In due course the reply came: “We suggest you learn to love them.”

“I too had a lawn I prided myself on and I too was plagued with dandelions that
I fought with every means in my power. So learning to love them was no easy matter.
I began by talking to them each day. Cordial. Friendly. They maintained a sullen silence.
They were smarting form the war I had waged against them and were suspicious of my motives. But it wasn’t long before they smiled back. And relaxed. Soon we were good friends.
My lawn, of course, was ruined. But, how attractive my garden became.
~
“He was becoming blind by degrees. He fought it with every means in his power.
When medicine no longer served to fight it, he fought it with his emotions.
It took courage to say to him, "I suggest you learn to love your blindness.”
It was a struggle. He refused to have anything to do with it in the beginning.
And when he eventually brought himself to speak to his blindness his words
were bitter. But he kept on speaking and the words slowly changed into words
of resignation and tolerance and acceptance . . . and, one day, very much to his
own surprise, they became words of friendliness . . . and love. Then came the day
when he was able to put his arm around his blindness and say, “I love you.”
That was the day I saw him smile again. His vision, of course, was lost forever.
But how attractive his face became!”
(Anthony DeMello, “The Song of the Bird”)

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