As Springtime Unfurls

From a young age, I learned to appreciate the diversity found in nature. As a child, I spent a lot of time at my grandparent’s home in the mountains. I remember many hours cradled in the cool earth by a small river that ran from a massive waterfall. The roaring sound of the water was accompanied by a gentle mist and the unmistakable smell of water that had been filtered by the rocks. Plants were always plentiful there. They were sprinkled along the banks of the river, growing in various sizes and colors. Mushrooms grew in the hollows of old trees, and flowers of every shade grew in vibrant bunches.  

 Flowers became a fascinating phenomenon to me. Because of their dramatic differences in appearance and smell, a tiger lily was as lovely to me as an anthurium. From the touch of their delicate petals, some as soft as suede, to their aromas that lingered on my skin and in my hair after playing by the river, I was drawn to flowers of all sizes and structures. I determined early in life that the best fragrances came from nature. My favorite scent was lavender, a lovely purple plant. Its color reminded me of eggplant, vibrant and picked fresh from the earth, but its scent was much more distinct. That’s what drew me to lavender. You could smell it growing around the corner, or down by the banks of the bay. It was perfect for gathering, like basil, cilantro. You could bring a basket and collect it in bunches, and set it in vases all through your house to exude their natural odor. Another flower I enjoyed was the light scent of daffodils, but for another reason. They had a simple smell, one you could miss completely if the wind caught it. It wasn’t overpowering, but light and pleasant. I understood why it was used in fragrances and perfumes. Its clean aroma was like freshly laundered linens set out on a clothesline to dry in the breeze. 

I had been attuned to scents. It took years to define what had always been true to me. The day discovered most people couldn’t see the green vaporous smell of basil, or the yellow and orange aroma of chrysanthemums. To me, scents always appeared in waves, mingling with each other in sometimes strange combinations. The whirling of colors was a common occurrence for me, and I later learned the experiences were known as ‘synesthesia’.  

The benefit of herbs was apparent to me by the way my grandmother used them. I’d help her collect edible herbs from the garden and chop them in the kitchen. We’d chop them and sprinkle our food. We’d make fresh pasta from flour and water with sauce made from the tomatoes that grew in the garden. Then we’d top it with freshly grated parmesan cheese and add our freshly chopped basil. We’d also make guacamole, adding sprigs of cilantro to our mixture of smashed avocado, onion, and lemon juice. The potent smells of the herb mixtures still trigger fond memories. Often I’d use the cooking skills my grandparents bestowed upon me just to be taken back to those childhood memories. I also still made candles the way my grandfather taught me. First, we’d find old jam jars to wash and remove their labels with soap and warm water. Then, we’d collect lavender to place in hot soy wax to make candles scented by nature. I remember cooking and candle-making as springtime activities. The smells of the herbs and the flowers would mingle in the air, wafting out the windows and creating aromas that were almost tangible. 

My passion for plants was only magnified by the passing of time. Something about a tiny seed giving rise to a bountiful selection of plants, each with their own appearance, had always been alluring to me. My keen fascination with plants developed into the construction of my own greenhouse, based on the garden of my grandparents. I built the structure out of wood nad glass panels. Inside were shelves and tables where I grew an extensive array of flowers, ivies, and vegetables. In the garden beside the greenhouse I grew plants that had been propagated from other plants and had overgrown the walls of the greenhouse. Each had their own nourishing and healing qualities. 

From humble beginnings, plants took the sun’s energy and turned themselves into something resilient. There is so much beauty to be found in that process of transformation. Tending to flowers each day, their growth usually seems insignificant. But, if I zoomed out to capture a wider frame, as months tick by, tiny seedlings I’d plant would bloom into vivid vessels with strong stems. They hang on with their roots and brace for the elements. Every tree and each flower is a sturdy survivor. Each petal is a symphony of color and texture. Flowers blossom on their own and on trees. Many have their pollen carried by bees. This process of pollination keeps ecosystems thriving all over the world. Nectar from flowers sustains the lives of animals like hummingbirds. Flowers bloom, fall back to the earth, and resiliently, they return again in the spring. 

From the lily to the iris, each flower has its own journey. The sunflower has its place in the field, and the daisy belongs in the meadow. What the flower has mastered provides a great lesson. It does not ask for shade or protection from the rain. It recognizes the necessity of exposure to the elements, and it grows. From the flowers, I learned that meaning can be found in all directions. My time in nature has taught me that I can serve my purpose right where I am, because I belong to the world. All I have is a chance to embrace the journey of blooming. My growth can be fueled by what nature provides, because I am a part of it all. I can dance towards my unfurling with open arms stretched towards the light of the beckoning sun.