One of the unusual, if minor, aspects of Dorothy Day’s autobiography The Long Loneliness is that she includes early on, scent memories. It may seem like a small detail in light of the book’s main subject — her coming to consciousness as a Catholic and social activist. Still the fact that she mentions smells at all signals to me an extraordinary individual, one acutely aware of her surroundings. Perhaps it is through her heightened sense of perception that she came to conversion. Dorothy Day remembers the odor of a friend’s house in Oakland that smelled of fresh shingles, an odd scent for a child to remember. Later, after the great earthquake, the family moved into an apartment in Chicago. Young Dorothy was eager for some contact with nature. She remembers the scent of the sweet clover that fringed the cement-paved yard that was her playground. She gathered bunches of it to dry and stuff in pillows. She remembers the smell of fresh popped popcorn watching from behind a window a sidewalk vendor pour butter and shake salt over the hot kernels. When her father’s job improved and the family could afford to move into a house, Day describes it thus: “To draw the curtains at night on a street where people bent against the wind, and where a steady whirl of snowflakes blurred the outlines of trees and shrubs, and made the trees black against the heavy gray sky, and to turn to a room where a fire glowed in the basket grate and a smell of fresh bread filled the house–this was comfort, security, peace, community.”
For most, our sense of smell is the weakest way we perceive the world. Friends react differently to the power of the odor Blanca emits in her late night effort to attract whatever it is that will pollinate her. Some can’t smell it at all. Others choke on the heavy pollen dust they inhale. If I noted that the fragrance she issues into dark night is comprised of benzyl salicylate, would that bring you any closer to enjoying that musky sweetness? To say it smells like a combination of gardenia, jasmine and Casablanca lilies is only a rough approximation. It’s a heavy scent that lingers in the nose even after I’ve walked away from her. Sometimes I can almost taste it. Once I thought I smelled it the next day, long after her blossoms had closed and she sat quietly, flowers hanging like curtain tassels, bedraggled. The memory of a party stirred up by the sight of your dress hung limp over a bedroom chair?
Carol saw some cereus-scented products for sale on line. Bath salts. Perfumes. Candles. Would we really want to be doused in such a fragrance? Perhaps if your name were Cleopatra, or Aphrodite. But for the rest of us, it might be a bit much. Turned out these products were fashioned after another type of blooming cactus native to the hot deserts of Arizona. The fragrance creator had “memorized” the scent of the flower. Astounding! He could reproduce the scent without using the actual flower.
An unexpected bonus this season: the tropical rains that showered us, remnants of Hurricane Earl brought a late season drink to the many parched plants in the garden. One result, a hosta I’d wanted to do away with but didn’t, sprouted a long-stemmed lovely white blossom. When I bent near it to retrieve a pot that had blown off the deck railing, I was stunned by her elegant fragrance, one I’d never noticed before. Oh no!! How to describe this one? Lighter, younger than Blanca’s; a girl to her womanly ways. Something like lily-of-the-valley, fresh and watery. And I don’t even know her name. Fragrant hostas, anyone?
If as Simone Weil has described, attention to beauty can be a form of prayer, I’d say I’ve been doing a lot of praying this summer…watching Blanca bloom, gazing at the widening white blossoms, as they slowly, slowly grow like a small moon over days and nights waxing.
Once they have opened fully, I am caught in an intricate and elaborate net of petals. There comes a time of night after the party when the guests have left. It’s likely past midnight and I’m probably a little tired, have had a bit of bubbly, and rest in the quiet. Just me and the flower and I don’t want to leave off looking. I know it will be a long while before I am lucky enough to see this again. I am caught, or rather left in the deep silence with nothing but the flower. Darkness increases, the flower increases and this is all and everything.
Today it is bright and beautiful, a clear blue sky, just like the morning of September 11, 2001, that day of rage and horror and loss. This 9/11 let’s gaze at something enormously beautiful, something larger than that awful pit at Ground Zero, and let’s listen to something more beautiful than the ravings of the mad. And remember we’re part of something bigger and vastly more beautiful, maybe as close as the nearest leaf or blade of grass, or as distant as an infinitesimally tiny speck of star.
With a little piece of the rain forest, Blanca, a resident of the tropics, currently living in my backyard here in the temperate zone of the mid-Atlantic states, eastern end of Long Island, I feel called to consider what it means that this particular plant, one small tendril on a long and curvaceous inter-connected ecosystem has been plucked and transported so far north. What’s it like back home?What is my broader responsibility in nurturing Blanca?
We know the rain forests are in jeopardy. Considering the rampant environmental destruction taking place worldwide, I want to do one small thing to help protect Blanca’s home. There’s an upcoming symposium at the U.U. congregation in Bridgehampton: Awakening the Dreamer/Changing the Dream. It’s an afternoon’s presentation, Sunday, October 3, about how to live a more sustainable, spiritual and equitable life. The symposium is a program of the Pachamama Alliance, a group dedicated to preserving tropical rain forests around the world by empowering indigenous people and to creating a new global vision of equity and sustainability for all . I want to support them, and I will attend the symposium. For the privilege of having a small piece of that rain forest right here in Sag Harbor. For the sake of my dear nieces and nephew. And because it’s a moral obligation to do so. Learn more at these links: http://pachamama.org/ and http://awakeningthedreamer.org/symposium/1870/
I just received some very high praise from a plant woman I respect and admire. She said I must have a very green thumb. She said that it is very, very unusual for a plant to have bloomed three times this season.
I thank Marina Whelan, and have provided a link to her wonderful website, The Amateur’s Digest which I learned about from Carol Williams, author of Bringing a Garden to Life, a book I highly recommend.
But it’s not me, after all, it’s the plant. And beyond that, it’s the creative force streaming through her. Something larger than us both. I am a mostly attentive caretaker trying to learn the best way to be around the beautiful Blanca.
Still, I feel no particular talent toward the plants, but a love and enjoyment of them. I’m a lazy gardener especially by mid-July when it’s too hot to do much. I fear I neglected Blanca this hot dry summer by not watering her enough. Nevertheless she produced three wonderful cycles of blooms lasting several nights running.
She got me through a few rough patches…intense times this summer when the anticipation of her blooms kept me looking forward. Then the reward of her glorious opening, when time slowed down again and there was nothing else to do but sit and observe, wait a bit more, and be amazed.
What should the host or hostess wear when receiving guests to see the blooming of a beloved night blooming cereus? White, of course, something simple so as not to compete with the bride, as they say of mothers-in-law. Alternately, you might wear black so as to slip into the nighttime landscape. Pastels are suitable; plaids should be avoided (sorry Kat). Never wear perfume or cologne when throwing an epi party. You want guests to sense the full effect of her rich and heady odor. Bug spray is optional; citronella a judgment call.
All eyes should be on the flower, so try to place her in the center of your gathering, perhaps on a small but sturdy accent table. Take care to protect her from party-goers who might peer too close after having too much bubbly. Gently request that guests not fondle the flower too aggressively. They will likely be tempted to touch her silky petals. Again it’s a judgment call. Guests will be astounded by the sheer delicacy of these petals. Some, if they are particularly thick-skinned, may not feel anything at all. Such is the ethereal nature of this exotic creature.
What to serve? Since open bloom time is later evening, decide whether to prepare a proper supper, or provide snacks, cheese and crackers, and dessert. Consider how many guests to invite, and how long you think they can tolerate watching a plant bloom. The snacks and dessert option allows guests to come and go with ease. Otherwise, the leisurely supper works best when you’ve taken care to invite those who show some interest in events botanical.
In any case, lighter fare would be in keeping with the spirit of the night. Blanca is a feast for the eyes and nose, so keep the food a pleasant but not over-powering second. Champagne is a natural choice. Proseco is nice, too. Adventurous chefs might go in for regional specialties that recall Epi’s native home: serve Sri Lankan dishes or Mexican, or Central American. Fruit is always a good choice, grapes, berries, pineapple, melon.
Don’t forget to provide music for the grand opening. Maybe you have a sound track from a tropical rain forest? Perfect! Otherwise consider something quiet and melodic. Susan Graham’s La Belle Epoque: The Songs of Reynaldo Hahn is a favorite of mine when Blanca is blooming.
And it’s always fun to include a bit of flower lore to further intrigue your guests. More on that in another post.
We’ve had many gatherings over the past two years, and we’re always refining what we do. I’d love to hear your party suggestions, successes and missteps, too.
You can take the girl out of the tropics, but can you really take the tropics out of the girl? Today, the tropics, via Hurricane Earl have arrived in Sag Harbor and have showered Blanca, her lovely tassels swaying in the still gentle winds, with soaking rains. Perhaps she feels right at home. After blooming magnificently earlier this week (eight eye-popping flowers on Monday night; one more, the post-script on Tuesday, singularly gorgeous), Blanca is at rest. What perfect timing for this long soaking rain to bathe her, slake what must be a long deep thirst after three blooming cycles this hot, dry summer.
Blanca looked ready to bloom, the first and largest bud had indeed reached the 12-inch benchmark…but as we later realized, she needs not only length but mass. Hey, ain’t it the truth? All buds remained closed this evening, skirts twirled tightly around legs, so to speak. Maybe tomorrow. Likely tomorrow, she will fling her skirts open and dance. Some tepals have begun to unfurl. Still the buds must engorge, swell like a tiny balloon filling with air, hope, expectation. Preparing a place. “Who will come to my party?” she asks.
One of the derivations of “cereus,” from the Latin is said to be “candle (from its shape), from cera, wax,” according to my beloved American Heritage Dictionary. So then, we may have the first candle lighting up tonight, a cool night when the sweet fragrance of Blanca may be most enjoyable. It appears the point-guard bud, the largest of the nine is nearing twelve inches, that magic length at which point, after dark, that bud will open for all.
In another nod to coincidence, simultaneity, anniversaries, Sunday, August 29 is the birthday of French prose poet Jean Follian. He would have been107. Follain was born in Canisy, in Normandy in 1903; he died in Paris on March 10, 1971. A powerful influence in my early days of poetry study, Follain’s work was brought back to me while musing about Blanca, one of those quirks of association. What a beautiful birthday present her blooming would make for Monsieur Follain, her flowers full of the promise of poetry.
Here is a prose poem I opened to at random from his collection, A World Rich in Anniversaries with translations by Mary Feeney and William Matthews
“This plant, so exceptional since its flower never lasts more than a few hours, broke into blossom on a morning the garden’s owners weren’t at home. With its speckled petals, it bends in the breeze like so many other more common flowers. There’s a terrible sweetness to everything. A colony of armored insects, old gold, has moved into a shaded corner. Nearby, people hurry up and down steps. A hand stops on the rail of an oaken stairway; every minute falls. At six in the evening, the flower will be withered, the horizon will begin to grow pale, a group of girls will start to sing with no weakness or shame. “
Robert’s watch has always run a bit fast, about five minutes. Lately it’s been expediting, running twelve hours, 24 ahead of where we are in this time zone, Eastern, daylight saving. I pull the stem out and stop its relentless race forward. I set the watch, a Perry Ellis with Roman numerals, black leather strap in a ceramic dish and wait a day until the time and date catch up, meridians matched. We recalibrate. That’s how Robert lived, worried there wasn’t enough time, running too fast, moving too far ahead of himself. So he died too soon, five minutes before midnight.
Blanca is another kind of time clock. The white face of her blooms mark a kind of midnight or noon of her day when meridians line up and the elaborate flowers punctuate a kind of urgency. Procreate. Pollinate. Propagate.
“The creative process is overcoming the doubt,” one young novelist recently said. Robert worked against the clock, rising early before his day job to write chapters of DeKooning’s Bicycle. A year after it was published, he died. Yet it’s one way he’s still around. His words on the page. His voice still audible.
I’ve not yet seen the fruits of the night-bloomer. Apparently they are edible but take almost a year to ripen! Such a rare fruit must taste very sweet, yet I read they can sometimes taste bitter. All that waiting. They are said to be reddish or yellow, or even green. Elusive flesh.
Still Blanca keeps trying. Perhaps one day a seed will set, an “egg” will take within her ovary. And once that fruit begins to swell, she will begin to die. Her work completed.
Late Night Bloomer 