The Magic of Wisteria

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.” Robert Herrick 1591-1674


The gnarled vines like nooses climb to the top of the pine in our yard. Twisted and contorted, they grip the hapless tree with unyielding choke-holds. Lavender bouquets of wisteria hang on frail stems from these ancient vines. The morning dew drips from them. No artist’s canvas could recreate a scene more perfectly beautiful.

Sidewalk strollers stop beneath the dangling display of color. They sniff air that’s filled with the fragrant attar of wisteria, nectar of the gods. Its indescribable sweetness floats freely, effortlessly, as it carelessly wafts its way among shrubs and trees. Tender breezes tease the bouquets into slight movements. They sway, side to side, swooning in a sensuous ritual of dance.

This morning I walk out to retrieve the newspapers. The wisteria’s pungent aroma is arresting, so I stop, infused by its essence. It dangles in small garlands, like locks of lavender braids that might adorn the hair of angels or small girls at a May Day picnic. A stranger approaches, stops and is captured by the beauty. We speak.

The stranger says wisteria is reminiscent of love. Says that wisteria, like love, defies description. Says that words are inadequate to convey the quintessential quality of wisteria’s perfume, much less describe that of love. In order to understand either, one must remove the veils through experience. I offer no opinion. I say, “It’s early, and I never discuss love without first a cup of coffee.” We laugh. The stranger then moves on.

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. And most have had enough experience with love to know that when we are selfishly possessive, it withers in our hands.

I stand beneath the wisteria vines, pondering the stranger’s similarities 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!

While standing there, noticing the wisteria, 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 could only think that bees may have a better clue about wisteria and love than we know. I watch the spectacle, mesmerized, wishing I were a bee today. The coffee can wait.

We once cut some wisteria for the house. Our daughter, The Gardener of Eden, advised against it. She warned, “It’ll wilt and turn putrid.” We ignored her warning. But she was right, as we discovered. There on the counter, the bouquet of wisteria lay limp, hanging over the lip of the vase. Both its fragrance and its beauty had faded. The vine is its source of life. Separated, it becomes a dried flower, useless, except to press between book pages.

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 walk back to the house, pour myself a cup and remember some obscure philosopher’s poem on love: “Love gives, and while it gives it lives; and while it lives it gives.” I think about the stranger, about the spirit of wisteria, 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
March 24, 2011