In our front yard are three tall pines. Springtime enshrouds them in vast array of purple wisteria.
Like flowering nooses, the gnarled wisteria vines climb to the top of the trees. Twisted and contorted, they grip the hapless trees with a lover’s unyielding embrace. Lavender bouquets droop pendulously from these ancient vines. Tiny morning dewdrops drip from the delicate petals. No artist canvas could contain a scene more serene.
The sun bathes the blossoms in a brilliant light. It caresses them softly with a Mother’s loving touch. They appear poised to burst out in song in nature’s silent symphony.
Sidewalk strollers stare at the dangling display of color. They sniff air infused with the fragrant attar of wisteria, nectar of the gods. Its indescribable sweetness floats freely, wafting its way among shrubs and trees. Tender breezes tease the bouquets into movements ever so slight…nature’s foreplay in motion. Side to side they sway, swooning in a sensuous dance.
Every morning I walk out to retrieve the paper. Today, the wisteria’s aromatic presence is arresting. I stop, enticed by its essence. The wisteria garlands dangle, like locks of lavender braids adorning the hair of angels and small girls at a May Day picnic. A stranger approaches and stops. She’s captivated by the beauty. We smile and nod hello.
The stranger says wisteria is reminiscent of love. She says that wisteria, like love, defies description; that words are blunt instruments, inadequate to convey the quintessential quality of its fragrance, much less describe that of love. To understand either, one must remove the veils through experience. She asks my opinion. I reply, “It’s early, and I never discuss love without first having a cup of coffee.” We laugh. The stranger then leaves.
I linger, enjoying the moment. Even before coffee, I know it’s impossible to seize the scent of wisteria. It’s a spirit, and like all spirits, it floats freely upon the breezes. We can only receive it, not restrain it, nor retain it. Whoever has experienced love knows that when it’s selfishly possessed, it withers. Love, like wisteria, must be free to scale its own heights.
I stand beneath the vines, pondering the stranger’s symbolism of wisteria and love. Neither asks, “Who’s worthy to receive?” They’re ‘free’ to all. Wisteria and love are magical wherever they blossom. Both are beautiful beyond comprehension. I know there are infinitely more similarities, but the coffee, the coffee!
Yet I stand there, transfixed, unable to leave the mystical scene. Suddenly, the lavender nursery appears to be alive. Bumble bees swarm in oblivious delight, flitting from one petal to the next in a paean of excited frenzy. I think, maybe bees have a better clue about wisteria and love than we know. I watch the spectacle, mesmerized, wishing I were a bee. The coffee can wait.
We once cut some wisteria for a flower arrangement. Our daughter, The Gardener of Eden, advised against it. She warned, “It’ll wilt and turn putrid.” We ignored her admonition. But she was right. The next morning it lay limp, hanging over the lip of the vase. Its fragrance and its beauty had faded. The vine is its source of life. Separated, it becomes a memory, useless, a dried flower to press between the pages of a book.
Sadly, the wisteria is ephemeral. Its life cycle is relatively short…a couple of weeks at best. It gives all it has, while it has it. Then as quickly as it blooms, it wilts. Its blossoms wither, let go and are scattered by the wind. They lie silently upon the lawn like a bluish-lilac carpet…as beautiful in death as in life.
I stagger inside for coffee and remember a philosopher’s poem: “Love gives, and while it gives it lives; and while it lives it gives.” I think about the stranger, about the spirit of wisteria, about the spirit of love. Deep stuff so early in the morning.
By the second cup I conclude that we have a short window of time to enjoy the magic of wisteria, and maybe love, too. We’d best do it now, before the opportunity passes. Wisteria and love wait for no one!
Bud Hearn
April 4, 2013
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