Come close. Let me tell you a secret. I do magic.
In my hand I hold charcoal colored seeds, no bigger than mouse
droppings. A friend collected them when they fell from his morning glories
and has now shared them with countless others. The back of my neighbor’s
garage, which butts up to my driveway, will be their playground once I erect a
chicken wire trellis for them to climb. Imagine a whole wall of violet blue flowers
unfurling with early morning sun then raveling closed at night. They
promise to draw bees, butterflies and hummingbirds, guests I am eager to host.
Morning glory flowers are edible. The seeds serve as a laxative and can be used
as a hallucinogenic. The leaves heal insect bites and stings. Dry those leaves to
make tea in winter and the liquid relieves frostbite and chilblains.
All this magic from nascent seeds.
They will go in an area of ground being readied especially for
them. My retired neighbor has been helping in the preparations. With the
attentive precision of a scientist-midwife, she monitors the compost pile;
adds layers of leaves and grass clipping from her yard, dutifully spreads
grounds from a coffee shop. Many others help. Worms, mice, creeping crawlies and
whatever else turn our apple cores, eggshells, onion skins and so on into
dirt. Into this dark richness I’ve mixed chicken poop from the community
garden center. In a world where we categorize smell as good or bad based on appeal
or lack thereof, I pause and inhale happily.
More magic.
It is the scent of time and place consecrated; redeeming what was
discarded as foul, worthless refuse into new life. It is fragrant hope borne
out of a communion of living things bent on shared purpose.
