I was introduced to lily-of—the-valley somewhere around eight years of age. My mother planted a few sad looking little plants in a dark, soggy foundation bed that ran along the back of our house in New Jersey. The house was tall, our back yard was narrow and bordered by woods with large trees, making this area heavily shaded. Hence, the choice of lily-of-the-valley. But juxtaposed against the abundance of all the native species in the woods, this sparsely planted strip of garden seemed all the more pathetic. My mother invested a fair amount of interest in these plants, and looking at the limp green shoots, I could not figure out why. So I kept my eye on them also. Why did these plants draw her so? When they finally produced a few little white flowers stalks, yes, the delicacy of the little bell flowers was intriguing? Maybe, but really too small to be bothered with, I thought. The whole project seemed like a lot of hoopla for not much. I forgot about this uninspiring experiment, and went on with my childhood.

Then somewhere in the adventure that was my twenties, living in a condo, consumed with work in the city, night life, traveling, my thoughts far from outdoor flower gardens, came the day I walked a suburb street near my parents house and passed a true thriving patch of lily-of-the-valley. The divine scent of these blooms! Love at first sniff, I've been besotted ever since, not only with the scent, but with the tiny little bell-flowers—that align themselves in quite an attractive way when the plants are healthy and thriving.

I have a small patch of lily-of-the-valley under a tree in my backyard, brought from my husband's parents' yard where his father had great success with this spreading plant. The woman who lives in the house on the corner of my block has a big strip in the front of her house and I happily take great inhales of the scented air every day when my dog and I round the bend. Kate Middleton included these white bell flowers, a traditional wedding flower, in her bouquet—lily-of-the-valley signifies sweetness and renewed happiness. To me, they were a civilized pleasure, a treat whenever I could share the joy of someone else's industry, and correct conditions. So I couldn't have been more surprised when, for the first time this spring, I came across "wild" lily-of-the-valley. Not once, but twice along the road side in wetland woods that have been preserved around my neighborhood. After watching my mother's attempts, I figured these plants as hard to grow. What an unexpected pleasure, to find these little white bells emerging from the shady natural undergrowth on their own.

Of course, these plants aren't really "wild." Birds and squirrels and who-know-what-all creatures help us with our gardening. My purple balloon flowers have an extended family gathering in my neighbor's garden, which is a good 70 feet from where they grow in mine. The word my middle-aged brain tosses up for such plants is interloper. I sigh in frustration. That's not what gardeners call cultivated plants that come up somewhere else on their own, and I know it, but I can't come up with the right word in this swiss cheese moment. Interloper doesn't come from this fantastical world of nature, but from the suspicious world of television news stories and sensational newspaper headlines. It is not the picture I want for this world. 

A few days later as I walk by the wild lilies once again with my dog, the accurate word for these plants jumps to mind—volunteer. These lily-of-the-valley plants are volunteers.

In the dictionary, a volunteer is a person who freely undertakes a service or a plant that grows spontaneously. To me, in this green, sweet-smelling sun-dappled moment, I know it is all one and the same. These little lilies have freely undertaken to grow spontaneously and provide a service—joy to all who take the moment to imbibe.