The Withering
The dried seed pod I held in my hand took my breath away. It was so instantly recognisable as a poppy seed head but at this moment, it was purely a skeleton. It was both the most strikingly unusual thing I’d seen in a long while yet so totally normal; the paradox of these fragile moments in a life cycle.
We’ve known how this works since we were children- seeds are planted, they grow, they bloom, they produce seeds, they die, the seeds get planted and the cycle begins again. It's perfectly perpetual and will continue to be until the end of time if we stay in our childlike innocence. Yet, this robust fragility becomes more elegant as we age, we see it as our loved ones grow, bloom and then senescence sets in.
I’m loath to use the words “decay”, “death” or “withering”. They seem too strong a sentiment for those I love, yet as the media has begun telling me these last few years, “we too are part of nature”. I can feel my eyes rolling at this farcical message, of course we are, indigenous populations have known it for millenia, why is my media feed now just catching up? I’ll be honest here, though the language is jarring when used for humans, the thought of returning to this beloved earth does charm me, becoming one with the land in the most raw way imaginable. For now, I’ll use more gentle phrases to explain our ageing, at least to appease my heart.
Last summer, the poppies were the source of much conversation. The seeds were muddled up by well meaning little fingers potting them on (or more likely, tossed around in emerging seed bombs) eventually finding their resting place masquerading in the salad bed. I saw they looked different from the moment they were healed in- their matte pale mint green colour was a far cry from the vibrant green to red hues of the rest of the leaves. I assumed they were a variety I’d not come across before mixed into the seed pack so, our family ate them for the first few weeks of spring; they were slightly rubbery with very little flavour if you’re wondering.
Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
Then the strong stem began to form, shortly followed by the big green bulging bud of the flower head. We stopped eating them once we realised, instead enjoying every moment of their blooming and beyond. Those marvellous poppies, nestled amongst the lettuce rose way above their low level companions and all season we championed their audacity of landing in the veg garden.
I’d love to offer words of gardening wisdom here, but truthfully, I’m just grateful the universe threw us poppies and not foxgloves to misidentify.
In its full bloom this poppy was a delight; a dusty lilac fading to deep purple, with petals so delicate they barely lasted a week. One blustery August day, they were blown away to reveal the exposed pale green of the seed pod hiding within. It felt too delicate to be out in the open, as if it should be covered for modesty sake. The weeks which followed after, it didn’t appear to be withering or decaying; though I’m sure this was the phase of dying it was flowing through, it seemed more of a hardening, toughening up, a ripening. Inside the seeds were maturing, ready to be tossed into the world in the next big storm, or like its unfortunate companions, chopped by my son and his curiosity with secateurs-the seeds still landed amongst the wildflowers, just unceremoniously.
As autumn rolled through and I began tidying the decaying stems and stalks, thoughts of the purple poppy fading away, the skeletal form stopped me in my tracks. However much I feel I understand the life of plants, now and then I’m given an opportunity to peek behind the veil and learn more. This plant gave me another chance to learn, to deepen my knowledge, my knowing, and I was ready. How often we miss these moments in the flow of everyday life. Our ancestors honoured life, not in separation of plant-human-animal, but as one. They saw the value in each being as a sacred entity and when it passed, it wasn’t the end but a transformation, a connection to the cycle of life, death and rebirth.
As I held the skeleton in my hands I thought how beautiful it was, stark and bare, stripped of everything we as humans associate with living. This delicate structure held such a special quality I was captivated by it, there was a deep sense of enduring persistence. This seed head should have been mulch, laid upon the earth to return it’s life essence. But instead here I was, rolling the hard stem back and forth between my finger and thumb, head cocked to one side as I inspected it turning. On reflection, was this the lesson? Long after our physical life has passed, the essence of us remains, a fragile echo of a life once lived.
