The clouds hang from the sky, their gray contours darkened with probability. When I step outside with basket under arm, the air condenses against my skin as if trying to move me from the space I have taken up. The grass appears softened, and my bare feet tingle to be naked against the it.
It is ten days until the Summer Solstice, the air alternating between hot and dry and hot and heavy, influenced still by the volatility of spring weather merging into that of summer. Warm winds often whisk through the tree-tops, sending green limbs a-dancing, pushing puffy cumulus clouds across the sky.
I feel full, as if I am the Earth herself, impregnanted by the Sun, growing, blossoming, turning rosy with good health and vibrant energy. In the early mornings the air smells of expectancy, and when I first step out, my lungs gasp for its freshness. In the afternoons the air is turned to heated honey, soft and opulent, and by evening, an amber glow saturates every thing in a sensual and heady texture. At night, the warm air is that of a lover’s breath, tender and soft, still laden with the scent of the wildflowers and sun-warmed greenery. The earth feels rounded, full with possibility.
The plants have been calling me during this time caught in transition; Yarrow with her tiny white flowers clustered together like giggling schoolgirls, Red Clover buds boldly standing on stocky stems, and sweet, succulent Wild Rose, her face opened and upturned, delicately veined petals inviting, beckoning.
I cannot ignore it.
And so I go out.
I harvest Rose today, the delicate petals soft against my fingers, which feel nearly insensitive to their presence. They are like butterfly wings in my hands, and each time one is blown from my fingers, I let it, silently offering it to the Goddesses, the Mothers, the Grandmothers. The path I take is along the dirt road at first, the tall fir trees shielding it from the sun; I dart into the bush here and there, wading through the waist deep sea of green, my feet finding their own way when I cannot see what hides beneath. My pup Fiona can only be heard as she finds her own route, a snaking line of rustling foliage the only indication of her movement.
As my path opens up, so do the bellows of the sky; wind rushes through the branches of the fir and pine trees. As if it is an afterthought, remains of the gusts reach the undergrowth, jostling the huckleberry bushes, billowing my skirt around my legs. I stop and shuck my boots, peeling away the socks and sinking my hot feet into the drying moss. My head tilts back and I sigh in pleasure, stilling my body between earth and sky.
My direction is up onto the benches of the land, meandering off of and back onto the road again, following the trail of the sporadically dispersed pink blossoms. Eventually, access to the roses call for footwear; I put my boots back on, tucking my skirt into its waistband, and wander into the scrubby brush, thorns and sharp sticks scraping my bare legs.
I emerge onto a landing, the sounds of woodwork echoing off close-pressed trees. My father greets us, Fiona wiggling and pressing herself into the ground in excitement. He jokes about my basket, asking if I’ve brought chicken and wine for lunch. He stands outlined by the structure he builds, the timber beams pale and exposed amongst the saturated greenery of the landing’s edges; to the right a small plot of rye shimmers in the wind, sunny arnica flowers peeking up from the grain’s base. I spy a rose bush against the hillside and pick up my skirt.
The path back to the homestead is well-trodden, worn down not only by human foot, but by horse hoof, and while the path remains clear, the bushes that frame it stand tall, brushing my bare waist as I pass by. I head to a series of four meadows thick with wildflowers and tall grasses, overlooking the dirt road with views of the mountains peeking through the thickly barked fir trunks. The clouds are darker now, a luminous gray hanging lower, the air turned heavier. I smile at it all – I feel young again, my childlike desire to frolic in the meadows rippling through me, the poignancy of the stilled air, the distant river roar, the wet heat pressing against my skin somehow electrifying and ataractic at the same time.
These meadows were the center of my imagination as a young girl in the summers, and now, as a woman, I bask in the remembrance; I fancy myself in another time, a time long past, foraging and gathering herbs to dry for the winter. The sensuality of being among the plants warms my womb; I feel a deep desire to return to the land totally and completely, to return to the primal pulse I feel pulling at my blood.
After the bag is filled with rose petals, I harvest a bundle of yarrow and pick a handful of wild lupines for the kitchen. Their tender purple blossoms join the brilliant white and yellow of ox-eye daisy at the bottom of the basket, and I revel in the colours for a moment, feeling a child-like surge of joy for such simple beauty.
With one last glance around the meadows, with the feeling I’m am searching for something I won’t ever find in the tangile world, I raise my peppery rose-scented fingers to my nose and turn, taking the path back out into tamed land.