Walking uphill past my neighbor's house, somewhere between the white lilacs and the honeysuckle, I noticed a single iris blooming, leaning toward the road as if to greet me. This reminded me of another iris, probably a sister to this one, that my neighbor brought me years ago. Throughout the blooming season, she delivers me surprises of flowers from her yard: magenta azaleas, daffodils, peonies like pale pink tutus. They arrive in an odd assortment of containers, charming in their combinations: tomato cans, vitamin jars, apple juice and water bottles. I stumble upon an unexpected gift of color and perfume, which is followed by the meditative pleasure of arranging the flowers in ceramic and glass vases collected over the years.
That original iris really captivated me. Flowers reveal incredible details when met face to face. I remember observing the iris' beauty and demise over the following days. This fascination resulted in a poem:
Lavender Cathedral
The iris builds its lavender cathedral,
curving three vaulted petals
over a trinity of fringed ones
that leap skyward
through translucent arches.
Three lowest petals
lower long, furred tongues;
carpets of yellow hairs unroll
down the center of each one.
Slowly, flowers fold and curl and darken,
exuding a grapey sweetness as they shrink.
When I touch them,
they are cool and cling to my fingertip
like wrinkled balloons.
One iris forms a withered fist,
soft knuckles sticky with dying,
while the next one up the emerald stem
unfurls a new sanctuary
of captive purple radiance
our eyes enter anew,
worshipping.
"Lavender Cathedral" was first published in The Bitter Oleander, then in an online "gallery" on three candles. It later became part of Teaching Bones to Fly, my first book. The photo of the iris was taken this afternoon. I also found a four-leaf clover at the top of the hill.
I'm not sure why it gave me such calming pleasure to float African daisies (Osteospermum) in an old white bowl covered with big turquoise polka dots. But it did. I love the variety with the unusual purple "spooned" petals. (I believe it's called "Pink Whirls.") I also discovered that the daisies cast wonderful dancing shadows, like an animated child's drawing of flowers.
The deepest water employs a more serious tone. It uses a guttural form of interrogation. As you move through its body, it questions your presence. Holding your hair in its cold hands, it examines your face. Keep your lips sealed. Although it has the magic to turn you weightless, to keep your thumping heart suspended, unburdened as a fish -- beware. Its true desire is to steal your breath, to swallow you whole. Never talk back to the water. Mind your manners, keep your thoughts to yourself. Always remember the grassy shore. Float.
Coming out of a local restaurant a couple of Thursdays ago, we caught a glimpse of a double rainbow in the eastern sky, between the trees. In search of a more open view, we drove to the North County Trailway in Yorktown and stood on the bridge over the New Croton Reservoir. The unsettled air produced some wild contrasts in the weather. The rapid changes in the surroundings were beautiful: wind-whipped inky clouds, water turned to hammered silver, sky scoured blue and spotless, pelting rain, and intermittent rainbows. Sometimes rays of sun pierced the raindrops as they fell. It was like standing inside a time-lapse sequence of May days, our hair flying, the condensed weather flickering over us. The scenes changed in such quick succession that I could almost feel the seasons of my life rushing over my scalp.
Dina Bursztyn of The Open Studio Art Gallery in Catskill, NY, e-mailed an announcement of the new show at the gallery, Findings from the Archaeological Museum. The invitation listed examples of the unusual things to be discovered there:
Sorry, sorry. I can't help it. I love them.
Walking uphill past my neighbor's house, somewhere between the white lilacs and the honeysuckle, I noticed a single iris blooming, leaning toward the road as if to greet me. This reminded me of another iris, probably a sister to this one, that my neighbor brought me years ago. Throughout the blooming season, she delivers me surprises of flowers from her yard: magenta azaleas, daffodils, peonies like pale pink tutus. They arrive in an odd assortment of containers, charming in their combinations: tomato cans, vitamin jars, apple juice and water bottles. I stumble upon an unexpected gift of color and perfume, which is followed by the meditative pleasure of arranging the flowers in ceramic and glass vases collected over the years.
Last fall I discovered Book Barn, a wonderland of used books in Niantic, Connecticut. For those who love to meander through aisles and aisles of books, hoping to serendipitously discover unread treasures-- those entrances to countless secret worlds--this is the place to go. At last count, they had over 350,000 books on display throughout their sprawling complex, which includes a barn, houses, sheds and tents. (You will also find friendly and knowledgeable staff; complimentary coffee, tea, cookies and doughnuts; as well as cats and goats.) 2008 is their twentieth anniversary year.
