Slowing down to smell the roses

In a situation beyond control, there are moments when I feel oneness with nature and feel lucky to be alive to sense the universe around me

Last evening after an intense day spent editing a friend’s Masters’ thesis, cooking, then presenting at a three-hour-long webinar, I couldn’t resist a post-dinner stroll. It was past 8.30pm, pre-twilight, the sky a shade of indigo, the fresh sap-green springing forth from the earth contrasting against everything, especially the black-grey hail nets that had already, in many instances, been shuttered over the apple trees. Since we’d been to Venice the week before, since I’m now working closely with Ocean Space, housed within the restored San Lorenzo church, we hadn’t walked in the direction of Rungg, the neighbouring town, in at least two weeks. So the sight of roses terrifyingly in bloom came as a surprise to both of us.

The path leading northwards from Tramin to Rungg borders vineyards and edges along a mountainous terrain, offering stellar views of the Etsch valley. It had started to become exceedingly familiar to us from the beginning of our second lockdown, when we weren’t allowed to move beyond our municipality. The repeated visiting of the same road across a span of time allowed for a deep familiarity. As winter mellowed down and allowed for the onset of spring, the world around this path was activated differently with streams of yellow flowers locally called Ginster studding our immediate field of vision. When they began to recede in their stead emerged the purple-hued inverted pyramid-shaped Glyzenias with their heady scent. Around March, the tulips began to bloom. Some years ago, a farmer in Tramin planted Tulips along the floor of his vineyard. The result was so stunning, it became a trend. This year, like last year, my father-in-law planted over 1,000 Tulips in the vineyard behind our house. We watched them bloom in every conceivable colour combination. It never stopped being spectacular.

It was on this road to Rungg that I first began to notice almond and cherry trees breaking out into blossoms. Now, two months since their epiphanies, they already bear fruit which hangs and feasts on the summer sun and will continue to ripen until autumn. The vines that had seemed fallow all winter, their earthly protrusions encased in snow, are now garbed in a tender, glittering green, the fruit that will become the harvest already manifesting in successive proximity to the valley. The mountains, too, are aglow in a chlorophyll hue.

It became apparent to me last evening that our walks have taken on the urgency of witness. We go to see with our own eyes how the earth is coming along, we go to sense the transformation ushered in by the change of seasons. I still remember that moment in February when the landscape felt fallow, still, but you could smell the grass growing. You could feel the moistness in the air. Spring felt around the corner. All Tuesday it rained and so, last evening there was still this pervasive dampness. As we turned a corner I saw a bush that was haloed with roses, each one containing all traces of red and pink and yellow, each one large and bulbous and completely in bloom, petals unfurled like a ballerina preening their twirl, audaciously, alluringly, gracefully. The air was perfumed with this scent. As we moved further we spotted more and more rose bushes. Each one begged you to pause and consider its beauty.

On our way back I spotted a brown object on the floor that my feet knew better to avoid. I turned around to inspect it and found it was a snail crossing the road, moving at its own pace, leaving behind a slimy trail. It was a vineyard snail, my partner reminded me. I had to make a video of it slithering along the concrete as if it had time enough. When I was done my partner held it by the shell and placed it in a safer place so it wouldn’t be at risk of being run over. As he placed it on the ground, its body had bent over, so it was diagonal. We watched it slowly pick itself up again and slide over a tiny blue flower. It was astonishing to watch. As we left it and walked ahead we spotted a black cat that had been casually hanging out but got stirred by our movement.

I’ve been thinking a lot about pace. I mentioned to someone recently over an email how I was still transitioning between worlds, between cultures, between privileges. There are moments when I’m suspended in limbo, fearful for all my friends and loved ones in India, and then there are moments like these when I feel oneness with nature and feel lucky to be alive to sense the universe around me. I never imagined inhabiting a situation in which I didn’t know when I could return to India. There are times when I feel exiled from the sites of my belonging. I remain lost between languages. I’m finally somewhat comfortable in German, but when I go to Venice I am reminded there is this other language I am obligated to learn. I am trying to be more mammalian, more in sync with blooming roses and slithering snails. Above all else I think I’m trying to learn how to ‘have time’ or not feel controlled by a perceived lack of it. 

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.

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