Quiet Announcement
A couple late summers ago while on my usual country-lane walk, I saw a deep purple catching the light in the emerald green of the distance. I immediately knew that it was Ironweed, a gorgeous flower that I covet. If the flower had ears, it would have heard my repentance from that distance. I approached the tall, roadside aster and apologized. I’m so sorry that I missed your growth…and your bloom! I admired the purple florets, giving them each a token of my attention, telling them how beautiful they are. How many days did I walk past you? I wanted to ask Why didn’t you say something?
While adding compost to my garden yesterday, I almost stepped on the delicate, white plumage of my first-of-the-year Garden star-of-Bethlehem, a pretty flower with six rays of petals. If you were to take to the Internet, you would learn that it’s an invasive, non-native flower and you’ll immediately read about people wanting to pull their hair out over it. You’ll immediately see directions on how to irradicate it with vinegar as acidic as a gardener’s feelings for it. But I am not a good gardener. I am not a good conservationist. I do not hate the Purple Dead-Nettle that grows in abundance in my yard. I do pull some of it where native species I planted are trying to thrive. I do not hate the Dandelion or the Bird’s-Eye Speedwell.
It is that time of year where everything quietly announces itself. And regardless of witness, it pushes out of the ground in its newborn green, unfurls its leaves like a fist opening into an open palm that catches the light in order to feed its opening blue, white, red, purple, orange, or yellow mouth. I often joke with my husband that I need clones (don’t we all?). One to sit at the job and make the money, another one to sit at a job and make the money, and the others to be poets, artists, conservationists, teachers, writers, animal rehabilitators, helpers, mothers, photographers, experts, guides, Yogis, travelers, language-learners, journalists, gardeners, bookstore owners, monks, and wandering vagrants. And a few others to be on their haunches, witnessing the changes of seasons, the Kairos of growing moss, the slow establishment of lichen mapping itself out on tree bark, the tall-growing roadside Ironweed and its many florets. And a handful of others to do absolutely nothing but read books, watch movies, read magazines, bask in the sun, eat cheese and jams, and host friends. Instead, I am (we are!) stuck establishing a fullness in one very short lifetime.
Some flowers hold their petals for only a few days and in those few days they are likely witnessed time and again by what is most important, the pollinators, be it winged, footed, or the wind. The more-than-human world is always announcing itself, a lot of it silently, invisibly. The swarm of insects indicate the announcement of flowers. The perching of birds announces the quiet leafing-out of trees, the whispering growth of berries, the stock-still readiness of seeds. You smell of lilac announces the high-up cones of flowers waving at the sky.
The word “performative” is all over the internet. Humans are obsessed with announcing themselves and the meadow in which they choose to do so is social media. Social creatures, we unfurl our observations and opinions to see who will eat them. We disperse seeds of ourselves into the Internet-is-Forever, hoping to bloom, be picked, and for others to disperse share our seeds. Humans use AI to cheat sexual selection, to change their genetic code, to create more vibrant nectar guides so that a passersby will want to climb into us and see what’s good. Most of us are the Ironweed, invisibly growing tall on the roadside and if we’re lucky, someone from afar crosses the lane to admire us.
I’ve been waiting for you, they say.