Amazing foliage....

How often do we think to thank or adore the humble leaf? They are a source of food, medicines, charms, paper and clothing even, yet have a way less glamorous reputation than flowers or fruits. In the wildly subtropical part of my garden however, I have come to a place of noticing how many aesthetically pleasing and unusual leaves can be grown. There's something lush and exotic about such plants, who's beauty lasts all year round. Im not sure what practical purpose it serves for the plants, perhaps like brightly coloured frogs it says to predators 'toxic don't eat me'. Indeed the insects that attack my ferns and staghorns seem to be leaving these guys alone. Many of them are specific to low light areas, so perhaps the colours play a role in this too. Anyways, just thought Id share some of them as they are so surprising....

The Green Woman Tale...

Part one:

As science broke down plants into the parts of them ‘active’, or companies focused on introducing ‘new’ wonder herbs, there was something that fell away, was veiled. It wasn’t that the information wasn’t valid, but that it was touted as the only route to understanding and clear seeing. One that missed that unnameable blend that nature creates in a plant, that’s not measureable. A kind of essence....
Sam had watched her aunt when she came across a plant she didn’t know....
There was a recognition and respect with which she approached it, a sitting with. Deep breathing, so slow as to be almost imperceptible...like the pulsing of the plants own inhalation, exhalation. Carbon dioxide in, oxygen out. Receiving...giving....receiving....giving.... each life form echoing the other. Some observers might see nothing going on, but it was a simple ritual ancestors had practiced back through time....
Perhaps there were physical similarities to plants she knew, a shared hereditary that could give clues as to its strengths, never assuming over familiarity with a potential new friend. A small piece in the mouth and chewed, spat out immediately if the taste was unpleasant. No one said you had to eat a whole lot to get to know a plant! If it passed this somewhat intuitive test agreeably, she held it in her mouth and felt for burning, tingling, other sensations, any change in taste. If there was none , then she swallowed. Then she waited, feeling overnight for effects. Then, again, a little more, repeating the same process. If no ill effects were noticed, over time, it was considered edible. But if there were noticeable effects, they would be explored carefully, they could be clues to medicine contained within.
Nowadays it would be sent off for testing, active ingredients explored and nutritional percentages analysed. If it proved ‘valuable’, they might be isolated and reproduced, to be bought as pharmaceutical drugs. All the while emphasising the danger of utilising the plant for common folks, without degrees...odd paradox. It was the taking away and then reselling it back to people that seemed dodgey. Surely once medicinal properties are identified, one aware of the range of processing, in tradition for so long, could access it and if it was poisonous you can bet it’d be remembered!
What a way to gather plant knowledge, through experiential learning. There were enough manuscripts gathered now that could be cross referenced if needed too....
All this was jumbling around in her mind, along with her bowels, as the bus shook along the dirt road. She was on her way to visit said aunt for a couple of weeks, annual pilgrimage.  Same time every year. Get away from concrete and computers. Fear encouraging news reports on violence and impending doom. She was headed for the perfect antidote. Auntie Clarissa wasn’t your average grey haired pucker cheeked robust smiling eyes stereotype, she was all that plus a kick on her like a mule! You just knew the kettle’d be on the boil in preparation for your arrival accompanied by an opinionated rave on her latest project. Simple pleasures that’s what I need she thought, enough with appointments and timetable living...
She gazed out at the passing world hazily with the odd percussive bump...
“This is your stop me dear”, the bus drivers voice woke her from internal ramblings. She gathered her bags and jumped up, “thanks”, “Nice to see you around again luv”. She bounced down the steps and almost right into the series of individually crafted mailboxes that marked journeys end, and the lanes. One an old dairy tin, one an old bent shovel, one aged but elegantly carpented...
She checked the box and got set for heading up the lane, that cup of tea seeming elementally desirable as the bus kicked back dust into her vision. Hang on, there was something in the box. A small parcel, oddly enough in Clarissa’s own handwriting, addressed to Sam. That’s odd , still I guess she’ll reveal all, in her wise way. It was heavy in her hands, and her curiosity was barely able to be kept at bay to not bust it open then and there. Full of surprises as usual she thought absentmindedly. At that point she had no idea how right she was...
It wasn’t unusual for Clarissa not to be around when you arrived, she might be off wild crafting or just meandering about soaking in the day. Sam sat down, the kettle was on the pot belly stove which wasn’t lit, she probably got distracted half way through, the fire was laid ready to light. Sam looked at the parcel she held. It was brown paper bound in string, with enough sticky tape to stop an army, but being one mere woman she found a knife and cut it open. Inside was a leather pouch, soft to the touch with wear. Inside it was a set of playing cards and a note. No, they weren’t  a deck to play poker with she realised as she shuffled through them, they were some kind of divination or tarot deck. The drawings were mostly in earthy tones, pencil with watercolour washes layered over. The imagery was detailed, figures seemed to blur boundaries with plants and animals interlaced with labyrinthine patterns, like Escher’s art they warped and confused seeing. The note...sure enough, was in aunties script, more scribble actually, but she read on...
“Got called away, someone’s trying to shut down Edna’s medicine making, say its unhygienic and unsafe, danger to public health, never heard anything more ridiculous in my life! She’s so house proud it’s virtually an obsession. Anyway love, might take a week or so to sort this out, so make yourself at home and I’ll see you when I’m looking at you. The sheer arrogance of so called regulators, the things these people do to ones nerves. ”
Sam could almost see her shaking her head, and smiled. “Oh yes the cards I found in a rare cleanup, they belonged to your mother, never really fancied them myself. Anyways, enjoy them, but don’t get too serious eh?” No Clarissa, and yes I am happy to water all your multitudinous, slightly limp plants.
They are engaging, she thought gazing at the card she held, as her vision traced a vine like sworl of lines, morphing into a vortex, almost trance inducing, as they became a waterfall and then a river. A leaping salmon that had such eyes she felt guilty as she thought with her belly, fresh fish.....mmmm. But the card was so engrossing it took her a time to connect with her inner ravenous hunger and put it down, leaving it upturned, the others in the bag. Transfiguration, she thought absentmindedly as she bent to light the fire and looked around her....odd word.....
The house was brimming with natural chaos, “Seems they got the wrong woman with Edna” she thought. Cuttings at various stages, potted up plants, piles of paper with illustrations and notes, books, vases of unusual flowers, and a vine that had wedged a way through a crack and was firmly making its way towards the study. Although there really wasn’t any distinction between ‘the study’ and the rest of the small cottage. The sofa had a doona on it for handy napping and there were bookshelves in every room. To give credit where due, her medicine area was scrupulously organised, with a book at the end of the shelves listing what was in stock, or needed topping up. Sam knew Clarissa rarely treated anyone, her main relationship was with the plants, and the tinctures, dried herbs, flower essences, infused oils and god knows what else, were a side tangent that possibly Edna had some of. Hence her aunt was partly responsible for her troubles. Edna had been a chemist in the 1930’s during the great depression, after which she turned and applied her knowledge and skills to what she called ‘peoples medicine’ and she and Clarissa became firm friends. One trained by science, the other by growing and wild crafting.
Sam headed for the fridge. To her delight there was a variety of tempting smelling cheeses, some smoked trout and bread. Any tomatoes Clar? Perfect. She prepared her snack, deciding after to go harvest some parsley, mint, chickweed and see what else was up in the garden. The garden was a continuum of the houses energies, the two blending into each other, and then finally into the forest....
The relationship between us and plants has been around as long as we have existed. Our ancestors were probably algae, or ate them, as they developed limbs and animalian conciousness in primordial slime, she thought. Returning her gaze to the card she noticing something she hadn’t before, a hemlock plant dappled with purple on its stem not unlike the colouration on the fishes skin. How did I miss that? I must be tired. Garden later, cat nap first. Sofas ready, willing and able to provide. It felt good to be here, the to do lists she had left behind seemed a million miles away as she slipped into sleep. 
 She dreamed of a man with a trout skin cloak, dappled in greens, blues and purples. A man with wild eyes and a feel of the shaman about him, who spoke languid as water. Touched u are, like your grandmother, and he reached out a hand and placed it on hers, cold and damp, there’s danger and you know it. That’s why your here innit, before they come, to save the ol ways from em. She raised her eyes to his and saw they had no pupils, round and dark like pools. Watch yourself, they come in forms to deceive, he  whispered in a burbling and bubbling, then was gone like a vision, and she awake as morning. Jesus that fish must have been off she thought scrabbling for distance, her conscious mind alerted and shaking off sleep....

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If you enjoyed this part, the tale continues. Just look on the sidebar for the link to the page where it is.

The forest of compassion....

            The path towards the forest that contained the trees of sadness was a well worn one. Many bare footfalls had indented it into the earth exposing roots that could trip one if unaware. A hollow wind moved between branches carrying memories that haunted tear stained eyes, drying the salty wetness. Autumn had left the trees exposed, their tortured limbs twisted with grief. 

An empty place one might think and yet where the trees touched each other there was a smoothness to their trunks, as if a warm energy had been exchanged massaging the wrinkles of worry away from them, and on the ground below this smoothness small sproutlets of greenery were appearing, unfurling fern fronds, orchid stems flourishing in the humid moisture the shared tears of branches created.

 If a traveller was to lift their head for a moment and reach out to touch the smoothness the whole forest would shiver in gratitude and empathy and a whisper of music would echo through the space. The loneliness of the trees speaking through instruments no human hand had created, for who wants to wander long in the forest of sadness and yet so many find themselves there, some becoming lost and never finding their way from amongst its arms.

 For the ways to and from there are as many and varied as there are creatures who walk, swim or fly on the globe that its roots reach into, and for each person the way out is different.Some in a daze of forgetfulness remember no other landscape and become rooted to the spot, paralyzed, in time they grow roots and wooden limbs and find themselves one of the very trees they once wandered amongst. 

So it is also the forest of compassion for it feels with the journeyers who pass its way and it is this compassion that fertilises a small field of white roses in the very heart of the woods, where the paths are softened by silk-like petals and the air is perfumed. If one finds her feet walking this path she is changed forever, it is here that friends sit quietly waiting to gently offer a way home.