I finti fiori

I went to the garden after the rain.  The tiny blue petals of dayflowers seemed more resplendent than usual.  Their vines and leaves spread on the grounds, stretching beyond the edge of the terrace.  Considered “noxious” and “invasive” by many, they are welcome guests in my garden.

I first encountered these small jewels when I was in high school.  One day I saw a patch of dayflowers sprawled along a ditch on the roadside.  The color of the flowers caught my eyes.  I was also amused by the smallness of them.

Our school was in the suburb of Taipei on a hill near the National Palace Museum.  Every year, as courtesy, we were invited to visit the Museum.  There, I found dayflowers on a handscroll among other “auspicious” species: peonies, lotus, hydrangea, magnolia, and the like.  I was mesmerized by the vividness of the image.  At the same time, the irony of roadside weeds becoming a treasure and being displayed at a Museum also didn’t escape me.  There is only a thin line between arts and reality.

When I began building a garden on our terrace a few years ago, I was surprised to see dayflowers popping up at one corner.  Effortlessly they connected my parallel lives on two sides of the ocean; my past and present.  I saw myself standing in the gallery, fixating at the painted flowers.

I love flowers.  Watching them fade and wither away saddens me.  I am not good at keeping their images with paint brushes.  I was good at making silk flowers in my teen years: cutting leaves and petals out of ribbons; bending them by hand or pressing them with hot iron; and wrapping them onto wires.  Petal by petal; leaf by leaf; stem by stem; beautiful flowers would grow out my hands.  The exuberant dyes made them more vivacious then the real ones.

I loved making peonies.  They were flowers that I only read in classic literature. They were flowers that I only saw in paintings and photos.  With ribbons, I could bring them into reality.  Out of my fingers, amazing things happened.

These days, I grew peonies in my garden: classical crimson ones and pale pink “Mrs. F. D Roosevelt.”  In late spring, the buds gradually grow rounder and fuller.  As they quietly unwrap, gentle fragrances fill the air.  And, I know that they will come back year after year.

“Ma i fior ch’io faccio, ahimè!
Non hanno odore. . .”

“But the flowers that I make, alas!
Don’t have fragrance. . .”

Mimì in Puccini, La Bohème, Act 1

YouTube: “A Collection of Spring Fortune” 春祺集錦 by Wang Chengpei 汪承霈, Qing dynasty.
The brocade handscroll mentioned in the post is housed in the National Palace Museum in Taipei.

Cowbells

This entry is part 14 of 28 in the series Goldfish

There is a small bronze bell hanging in my kitchen.  I can’t recall where and when I bought it.  I do remember the reason that I picked it up.

Our old house was near the intersection of two major roads in Taipei.  However, when I was little, there were rice paddies not far from our neighborhood.  One day, I was in the back of the house and heard some bells jingling.  Curiously, I opened the backdoor.  There was a water buffalo at the end of the alleyway with a string of bells hung on his neck.  As it trudged pass the alley, the bells jingled.

The buffalo must have passed the height of its maturity.  The skins around his neck gathered and draped.  Its steps were quiet but heavy.  The image of an old animal persevering with dignity impressed me.

On the other hand, the sounds of bells were gentle and mesmerizing.  Low pitched, they made short glissandi synchronized with the steps of the buffalo.  Contrasting the heavy image of the animal, the bell tones had an otherworldly tranquility.

I was very young. The image and the sounds stayed with me for all these years.  Whenever I saw sets of small bells, I would be reminded of that day and that old water buffalo.  I would also be reminded of a time when life was simple, when things moved slowly and when nature was much nearer to us.

Twice a year, farmers would start rice seedlings in flat wooden containers at the corners of the fields.  When seedlings were tall enough, they would be transplanted.  Rice paddies would be flooded.  Giant ploughs towed by buffaloes would be used to loosen the soil.  Then the farmers would line up across the field and, in steady rhythm, planting the seedlings down one by one in equal distance.  They would step backwards with their back bending low the entire time.

From time to time, we would be allowed to play in the muddy fields.  Deep down, there were always abundant mudfish.  They splashed and slipped.  We would get all muddy.  Sometimes, we would find river snails.  They were smaller than escargots but just as delicious.  I don’t remember ever bringing our daily catch home.  The fun of playing in cool muddy water was the best reward.

When the harvest time was near, the fields would be drained.  Rice panicles would turn golden.  Then the stalks would be cut with sickles.  The farmers would gather a handful of stalks and shake them with a machine to separate the grains from the straws.  The straws would be tied and piled up high.  Sparrows came in flocks as the scarecrow stood helplessly.

Agricultural machinery replaced manual labor.  Chemical fertilizer and herbicides made it possible to harvest three times a year.  The abundance of mudfish and river snails has become something for the history books.  I hang the cow bell on my wall for remembrance of a happier time.