Orchids - A Sensual Avocation, And For Some, An Addiction
People who know me often stand in amazement at my dedication to my Orchids, and I in turn am often equally dumbfounded by their lack of interest in my avocation.
One I have devoted unknown hours to over the last twenty years, becoming known as a human encyclopedia of orchid information.
Their apparent inability to see the startling beauty and sense the mystery of one of the most incredible flowering plants on the globe is nearly beyond my ability to comprehend.
Greatly influenced as a child by an avid horticulturist, my grandmother Shirley Merriweather, the family matriarch, I am owned by memories of seemingly endless days spent by her side in the flower beds and greenhouses on her estate in new England, sitting beside her as she tended her flower beds, or bantering about in this wonderland of the senses with my playmates.
In a meditative moment I can literally smell the unmistakable fragrances of the orchids, feel the the nearly overwhelming sensuality of it, almost as though the place is somehow weaved into my spiritual DNA, if there is such a thing.
It has been said that it is these early influences, ones that leave such a lasting impression that shape us, to a much greater degree than we might like to believe.
So impressionable is the young mind.
I count my blessings, It could have easily been different.
Had I rather experienced the horrors of my half brother William who as a young boy living in a Spanish ghetto near Harlem, spent a childhood jumping across the rooftops of New York, the victim of familial abuse and the general hardship of a young boy growing up in New York city.
In spite of his heroin addiction, he survived and thrived, leaving New York to start anew.
Had my only memory of nature been being chased through Central Park at night by unknown assailants, would I find nature so compelling? Oddly enough, he is as at home in these gardens as am I.
William is a sweet and wonderful man, apparently unaffected by the experiences of his youth.
A testament to the the resiliency of a child? Perhaps it's more about how one responds to the stresses of life that determines one's fate.
The nurture or nature question I suppose.
Our children play together, wandering these gardens as did I as a child, the early morning mist is just receding as the sun burns through.
William's daughter Emily has just discovered the Brazilian militonias, amongst the most free blooming of orchids.
The seedlings from this cross of Miltonia clowesii and Golden Fleece have beautiful leopard spotted flowers with a large lavender tinted lip.
She seems hypnotized, synthesizing future memories of her own perhaps.
Time to get back to "my" addiction, my phalaenopsis need me.
One I have devoted unknown hours to over the last twenty years, becoming known as a human encyclopedia of orchid information.
Their apparent inability to see the startling beauty and sense the mystery of one of the most incredible flowering plants on the globe is nearly beyond my ability to comprehend.
Greatly influenced as a child by an avid horticulturist, my grandmother Shirley Merriweather, the family matriarch, I am owned by memories of seemingly endless days spent by her side in the flower beds and greenhouses on her estate in new England, sitting beside her as she tended her flower beds, or bantering about in this wonderland of the senses with my playmates.
In a meditative moment I can literally smell the unmistakable fragrances of the orchids, feel the the nearly overwhelming sensuality of it, almost as though the place is somehow weaved into my spiritual DNA, if there is such a thing.
It has been said that it is these early influences, ones that leave such a lasting impression that shape us, to a much greater degree than we might like to believe.
So impressionable is the young mind.
I count my blessings, It could have easily been different.
Had I rather experienced the horrors of my half brother William who as a young boy living in a Spanish ghetto near Harlem, spent a childhood jumping across the rooftops of New York, the victim of familial abuse and the general hardship of a young boy growing up in New York city.
In spite of his heroin addiction, he survived and thrived, leaving New York to start anew.
Had my only memory of nature been being chased through Central Park at night by unknown assailants, would I find nature so compelling? Oddly enough, he is as at home in these gardens as am I.
William is a sweet and wonderful man, apparently unaffected by the experiences of his youth.
A testament to the the resiliency of a child? Perhaps it's more about how one responds to the stresses of life that determines one's fate.
The nurture or nature question I suppose.
Our children play together, wandering these gardens as did I as a child, the early morning mist is just receding as the sun burns through.
William's daughter Emily has just discovered the Brazilian militonias, amongst the most free blooming of orchids.
The seedlings from this cross of Miltonia clowesii and Golden Fleece have beautiful leopard spotted flowers with a large lavender tinted lip.
She seems hypnotized, synthesizing future memories of her own perhaps.
Time to get back to "my" addiction, my phalaenopsis need me.
