A Crowded House
Walking the freshly mowed path that cuts the field into quarters, I come upon the center. A grass laden intersection sets me in the middle of a large and lengthy ex, from a hawks eye view. Unsure where to go next, I breathe in the midday sun in an open field meadow that is the scent of sunshine sublimating off of leaves of Timothy grass and Queen Anne’s Lace. Its taste is piney and sharp with a sweet low note of baked bread. The outbreath of oxygen from a Brown Eyed Susan is solar alchemy and it never smelled so good. I feel at home.
Standing dead center in the x, I have four directions beckoning me forth. How do I decide which direction to go? Midday is an awful time to cut flowers. They already feel wilty, like me, under the oppressive heat. I comfort them though by telling them they’re chosen. They get to go the party and I’ll be giving them a huge drink of cool water very soon. Plus, flowers like Rudbeckia and Queen Anne are hardy. They are not your run of the mill, new fangled annual. They have survived more seasons of weather tantrums than I could even dream of. Resilience is baked into them. I spin around and feel the heat starting to bake me a bit as the top of my sunhat absorbs more rays. I’m melting into the meadow and need to move. I spot a large patch of tall Queen Annes Lace and am drawn in that direction. Like a bumblebee, I am nose led by beauty.
After cutting enough stems of Queen Anne I head towards the Brown Eyed Susans that I see further along the path. Before I get there though, my eyes fall upon a sprawling patch of Milkweed to my right and see stem after stem of hefty green pods bursting at the seams. I try to visit every few weeks and by the look of them all, I might have missed a trimester. Giant seed pods loaded with the hot scent of possibility cling to each stem. Eggs about to crack. Mothers heavy bellied and thin skinned with life, ripe below the surface. All that is needed is time to dry the thinning sheaths that have held them all together for one heck of a season. One fine day, one splintered sunray will hit the pod just so, and poof. A sliver of white cloudy cotton, will ooze out into a whole new world. A silky, slinking seedpod licked by air for the first time. I pause to feel the moments expansion, as if that is all there ever is and ever will be. Change.
Standing so hot and still I see in my minds eye what is coming. Upon first splinter, thousands of silky strands of seeds will be wisped away up and onto the gentle breeze. A journey of flight into the blue, over a sea of swaying grasses. Freedom finds you when you least expect it. I wonder if that is what it feels like, nearing death? Birth I mean. A tightening so taut that it feels you might be smooshed forever until a sudden whoosh of wind propels you forward. In a flash, you are expelled through a red curtain that held you for so long, so tightly and so safe.
My heart perched on hope, I stand watch of the burgeoning bellied Milkweed pods and relax my overheated shoulders for some relief. Birth follows death and death follows birth. The best we can hope for is a crowded house, cheering our every arrival.
