This is a cornflower. But she's also, unmistakably, a blue hen.
A few years back, a group of us — women somewhere between fifty and seventy, all a little opinionated, all deeply invested in the state of the world — went looking for a name for ourselves. We wanted something that captured who we were - well traveled, sage souls. Liberal-minded and unapologetic about it. Interested in politics and the environment and equality. Civic in the old-fashioned sense of the word — the kind of women who show up for one another AND at the voting booth. Women who READ BOOKS, share dance moves AND ideas, and who aren't afraid to bring a covered dish and a thoughtful discussion to every gathering.
We are a flock, and we stick together, so blue hens was where we landed.
So when I saw this cornflower — that electric, cobalt heart wrapped in soft pale-purple petals — I thought immediately of my girls.
Look at her. Bold at the center. Soft at the edges. Standing tall on a long, slightly leggy stem that bends with the wind but never breaks. She's not fussy or delicate. She handles the harshest gusts off the lake and comes through looking like she could take even more. The bees adore her. The birds love her seeds. She contributes to the ecosystem she's part of, quietly and consistently, without needing anyone to notice.
I've been thinking a lot lately about how much I owe this group of women. About the recommendations, the laughs, the shared outrage, and the shared hope. About the way we take turns being the strong one and the tired one, and how nobody keeps score. About how good it is to grow older in the company of women who are growing older too, with all their brains and their hearts and their opinions still very much intact.
There's a small piece of history I love: in France, cornflowers are worn on Armistice Day as a symbol of civic remembrance and quiet resilience. That feels right, too. Blue hens don't march at the front of the parade. They organize, protect the sacred things, write the letters, and hold the line.
This one is for them. My blue hens. The bold-hearted, soft-petaled, wind-tested, community-loving women who make the whole ecosystem work.
I hope you have a flock like this. And if you don't, I hope you find one.