I can almost relax.
The strolling gardener, passing by the window with a garden
hose, cannot see me, concealed as I am behind Dendrobium sp. Orchidaceae, a sturdy, flowerless stalk possessing
thick, waxy leaves sprouting with alternative precision, very nearly to the
ceiling, along with another, unidentified woody plant, thick with jagged leaves
and topped with tiny purple blossoms. I can imagine myself alone, except when
the door opens, and I startle at the next visitor.
Almost, but not quite, relax.
The disorder to my mind is not unlike the educational
arrangement in the greenhouse. Orchids are strapped to trees, sprouting from
boxes. Some are labeled, their relationship to the rest of the exhibit made
apparent, while others hang in obscurity, part of the collection, but apart
from the collection. Some of the flowers are not orchids at all—the largest is
clearly a fine specimen of hibiscus, and other clusters of yellow, white, and
red appear to have little in common with the orchids, except that they flourish
in similar climates.
I love orchids, but fear them, like fussy infants who cannot
communicate their needs, beyond letting you know that you’re not doing it
right. Whatever treatment the amateur provides, the home orchid seems to
whither. This has been my experience, at any rate. I love orchids, but leave
their care and feeding to professionals.
Orchids are complex, their petals arranged to entice
pollinators, drawing them into secret folds, whose lovely purpose is to ensure
another generation of orchids. Their colors startle us singularly and in
combination: pale pink and fuchsia, cream and orange, purple and gold. Their
components fit in ways they should not, ways that defy the pen’s ability to
describe their relationships.
My thoughts, disparate and wild but seeking organization and
homeostasis, settle into this greenhouse. If my mind could take root here, or
even hang, artfully suspended from a cork tree by a tangle of wire obscured by
an arrangement of Spanish moss, perhaps I too could suck nourishment from the
air and experience equilibrium. I might live like a pampered infant in
conditions created wholly in aid of my caretaker’s wish that I might flourish.
But these are only flowers, after all, in a temporary
exhibit. In a few weeks, they will wither, their succulent stems and leaves of
interest only to serious collectors, those who can care for them in such a way
as to coax the next offering of floral enticement. Without petals, the plants
cannot provide a draw sufficient to warrant their elaborate display in this
greenhouse. Soon, they will be removed to make way for the equally bright and
equally fleeting colors of the walk-through butterfly exhibit. Children will
shriek, linger, interact.
My mind, tethered to my body by more than a twist of
florist’s wire, has at least permanent residency and cannot be displaced. Less
delicate than a fleeting flower, it may be reorganized, more resilient to
environmental changes.
I cannot live in a greenhouse, abandoning my own hydroponic
tomatoes, thriving in a rain gutter balanced between two nutrient buckets and
made animate by a pump that requires constant attention, and my straw bale
garden, in which herbs and peppers sprout with good will, while watermelon
vines grow wild around them, in a rapidly disintegrating medium. The human mind
prefers a state of flux. A vegetative mind, of course, has little to offer.
Besides, the Botanic Garden closes early, at four-thirty,
and I do my best thinking at night.
