Many years ago I mailed a package from Oldham, England to Gravenhurst,
Ontario. It was required to declare contents on an attached sticker. I truthfully wrote,
“Bits and pieces of the moor.” The English postal lady politely raised her eyebrows at
this but said nothing. The Canadian post office was more expressive in wondering to my
family why on earth their daughter was sending them dirt! If that postal employee had
ever walked across a British moor in autumn in late afternoon sun I’m sure he would
have immediately understood my need to try and share some tangible part of the
experience.
Which is exactly what my dear friend in Toronto did when she recently mailed me a selection of leaves gathered in High Park, carefully preserved between sheets of waxed paper, sandwiched in stiff cardboard and sent winging across the country. Nothing could have delighted me more, other than her own presence at my door. We have walked together in High Park under Ontario’s fall canopy, had our ankles tickled as we crunched through crispy piles of leaves, taxed our ability to keep breathing in, unwilling to let go of the fragrance. She sent me not only tree treasures: she sent me memories.
I have arranged those leaves on a wooden plate, center-pieced them on the table for an impromptu meal of autumn vegetable soup, admired them in the company of guests and compared them to our west coast treelings. They continue to make me smile each time I catch sight.
This got me to thinking about how much joy we spread when we share nature’s blessings. I am not the only one who tucks a flower or scented sprig in an envelope with card or letter. The natural perfume, when released, touches far more than just the sense of smell. As much as I love e-mail I regret that I cannot enclose such extra special communications.
Gardeners know all about redistributing the wealth of the earth. A David Austin rose is pretty gorgeous (what an interesting coupling of adjectives!) but Muriel’s violets and Aunt Barbara’s apple tree and the rocks from the McMillan’s homestead add meaningfulness to our own environment that really does defy word capture. You know what I mean.
The first dandelions of the year picked by a child for a parent are likely our first attempt to bridge the gap between nature, human and otherwise. And the receipt of that simple but complicated bouquet can’t help but tinge future experiences. A child is responding to the beauty of yellow explosions, reaching out to touch and claim a recognition of oneness, carrying that wonder of discovery to the one he/she knows second best. (Children really do know themselves firstly best until they are cultured out of this knowledge.) He has not yet learned that dandelions are weeds and worthy only of amused bouquet status. She has still the innocent faith that from-the-heart sharing will be welcomed, appreciated, enjoyed by one with an equal openness. Dandelions have their heartbreaking aspects and I say this with a chuckle now, having been in both aforementioned roles.
Given the time and opportunity I might have tried to capture that English moor experience of long ago with paint or with pen. How can a coloured pigment or some squiggly lines convey so much. The soul must be the instrument because the five senses on their own do not seem capable of this communication. How deeply one can be touched by a word, by a painting. By bits and pieces of moor.