(re-post)
If you have never experienced a rhubarb in flower then come with me and share the adventure. I will do my best to describe in words but open your heart as you read and ‘know my mind’ to receive the essence that goes beyond squiggles on a page and which is true communication.
I am sitting beside the blooming rhubarb in a canvas sling chair that must mimic the womb, it is so comfortingly pleasant.
The rhubarb was an impressive clump jutting out from the earth a month or so ago when the paint job that is part of the transformation of garage to Garden Room required a decision of removal, or not, of this sizeable plant. Since digging it out was active and leaving it was passive and the former did not immediately get done the path of least resistance was cheerfully followed. ‘Or not’ prevailed. I’m so glad it did. Once again hooray for thoughtful procrastination. The rhubarb patch was left to grow. And, despite a shower of old paint flakes and new paint drops, lord, did it grow!
Some of the leaves are nearly three feet across, big enough for the most corpulent of garden fairies to sit upon, big enough for a toddling child to shelter beneath. (In imagination I am that child and secret myself in such a magical place.) Sunlight thus filtered must be exquisite. Earth and plant fragrance thus captured must nourish corporal existence. And what piquant snacks are near to hand!
Pulled from a dream to reality some stalks have been brought indoors, stewed with necessary sugar, coddled with an egg into custard and provide daily desserts.
One of the leaves from one of the harvested stalks got draped on a garden chair and has offered the loveliest of seating. It is becoming linen-like as it changes and, most surprising, the green has taken on streaks of red, shouting out the colour of the fruit.
A slight distraction: three sparrows in a mad soar and tumble shot across the air not far above my head. Their frantic game of tag with squawkings drew instant attention (and an involuntary duck to avoid hair being feathered!) but the sound of their wings brushing each on each gave pause to my breath and a memory worth mind space.
But back to the matter at head: these rhubarb flowers are indeed taller than I and I cannot tiptoe top them. They are creamed white, frothy, stalk upon stalk upon stalk, floral staircases. Where each stalk originates there is a faded-brown wrapper and a brand new leaf. If I tap the florets white dust scatters but this does not explain the many dropped flowers now cupped on the leaves.
The scent is not obvious. You have to nose in very closely, calmly wait on the elusive perfume. But when it nudges the senses, the corners of the mouth turn automatically upward. It smells both warm and sunny and I reflect for a moment on the difference.
An emerging flower bud resembles a fist, clutching teeny, pink-tinged, wrinkled , ‘raisins’, promising to unfold and display the treasures. The leaves at this juncture are yet magnificently creased and one feels almost a disinclination to look at them as if they are not ready to be seen. The innocence of newborn kittens gives me the same feeling of wanting to turn my eyes away.
Ants are in attendance. Not surging, purposefully, up and down and around as ants are wont to do. No, it is more a casual amble along the stalks, in and out of the flowers. Perhaps this abundance of nectar receptacles has suggested a relaxation into prosperity.
The sparrow trio has returned and they are performing acrobatics in the cherry tree. A neighbour cat, crouching hopefully by the fence under the ivy, is pretending to be a safety net. I waggle a finger at him and he closes his eyes at me, slowly, in an acknowledgement and, I suspect, a grin.
Sept 20 2008
Comments