Friday, March 19, 2010

Rose Geranium

I have an enormous, spindly rose geranium growing in my kitchen. A sweet-hearted friend blessed my new home with a seedling three years ago. I had no idea how to care for it, but it has defied my ignorance and grown. The thing has freakishly stretched out like Mario’s beanstalk straight to Ludwig von Koopa.

It isn’t a lovely plant. I’ve seen pictures of full-bodied bushes grown in South Africa. (Check out this gorgeous picture from organic farms that grow and distill the plant for Aveda.)

















Now check out my darling girl.




It doesn’t flower. I’ve read that the plant blooms delicate white flowers with deep purple hearts. Not once in three years have I spied a blossom.

So, not so gorgeous, my long-limbed rose geranium. But have you ever smelled its leaves? Their scent is described as “lemony-rose,” and I think that’s a beautiful name for many of things: my daughter’s baby doll, a martini, or a poem about loving the wrong kind of boy. The smell, as an essential oil, is often used as an antidepressant. When I pull the shades open each morning, the rough fabric brushes the plant’s mint-green leaves and wafts their sweet scent over the kitchen table. It’s a calming smell, an after-bath-lotioning smell, an enfolded-in-Grandma-Lillian’s-arms smell.

How easy would it be to draw parallels between myself and the plant: spindly, not so bloom-full. Taking up a good amount of space for no determined purpose (but, you know, smells kind of pretty). But that sort of comparison isn't kind to me or to the plant, so instead I look for maybe its witching-worth. What do the wise women say are the magickal properties of the rose geranium? I think that finding layers of meaning in common things like plants and colors gives existence just a little more significance, a little more glamour.

I read tonight that some claim the rose geranium offers courage and protection.

Now there's a lovely thought to meditate on. All that winding wood, all those curled, grooved leaves are casting a lemony-rose spell of protection over my home and my family. Jason and Clarabella Snow can sleep still, wrapped in a sweet-scented shield. I can face ogres of depression and wizards of cynicism with deeply rooted courage.

It's romantic, I know, but I love the idea that a plant--especially a weird looking, flowerless one--can strengthen our hearts and guard our lives. I hope I look for the might and valor growing steadily in all my dusty corners.

2 comments:

  1. This morning, I pulled open the drapes and saw a petite purple flower on one of the high branches. How lovely is that?
    ~Jes

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  2. Jes, you made me spit soda when I read "I sort of followed every 'slutty new idea' that winked its eye." No one has made me do that for a long time so anything I can do to encourage you is the least I can do for you. Brainstorming is such a good way to get excited about your story again. Hopefully, one of your glimmers will start to really spark and light that story on fire again!

    Has anything happened with the petite purple flower? Isn't it odd that you just finished a journal entry about not seeing a single and bud and then suddenly it was there! Great journal entry. It made me want a rose geranium. But I have to black thumbs. I can't keep the grass in the yard alive. My grandpa would be ashamed. He grew all sorts of things from roses to yellow squash to strawberries. I didn't inherit anything from him - not his patience nor his green thumb! But he loved me anyways. :-)

    Have a great week!

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