Meters away I spot the purplish, tight-knit wildflowers; then across the arid fields we get closer to perfect rows with imperfect sprigs, lighter in color with tinge of silver-gray supported by lime green spikes, standing strong. Like the famous Rosé wines from Provence, the lavender plant or herb gathers its unique aroma the the sun-dried earth. Its scent often found in over-perfumed soaps or lotions, very few of which approximate their source. The genus, lavandula angustifolia or English Lavender is the most prevalent, but the Provençal plant's genus species I refer to in this blog is pyrenaica. Taken from the Pyrenees, I'm assuming. I didn't realize until I researched this article that there are thirty-nine species of the genus found across the globe in mostly Mediterranean-like environs, making the herb even more enticing.
When I decorated my bedroom, the first color I pulled from Renoir's painting, The Swing, a framed print, formerly my mother's, was lavender. Mother had grown lavender in her terrace garden, not requiring much fuss but stopping my mother in her tracks when she inhale the herbs' genuine perfume. So, I went to a nearby Home and Garden and asked for lavender. After a while they found some sprigs that were younger, fresher, and another bunch of older, aged lavender. I tied them together with a yellow ribbon and hung them on my wall, parallel to the poster but on the other side, upside down of course. Just as dried-flower enthusiasts do during a hot, dry summer.
You see I live in an apartment, so I don't have an outside door or a window that isn't bombarded by delivery truck smog. And I'm not an indoor plant fan, so the Old World sprigs give me a taste of the past, Provence, and nature's beauty. Yes, I've been to Provence, as part of a solo trip around France more than a decade ago. I stayed in Aix-en-Provence and during a tour around Cézanne country I spotted a field. The driver stopped so I could take a picture of lavender in its most famous setting.
Later, I saw a little known film by Ridley Scott, based on the novel by (A Year in Provence) Peter Mayle called "A Good Year." (To provide context, "A Good Year," in wine parlance, refers to robust bounty producing a great wine that year.) The movie features a tongue-hanging, sexy portrayal by Russell Crowe. Okay, he looks great but his character is an ass for one third of the film until Marion Cotillard--who gives a break-out performance as a smart-mouthed waitress--tames the beast. One of the funnier, recurring moments in the story comprises newly-arriving characters finding dried lavender in flower boxes and dumping the worn purple sprigs into the trash. Unbeknown to these visitors, lavender wards off scorpions, arachnoid family fixtures in the desert-like heat of the South of France. I relay this story because it supplies a thread, albeit a tenuous one, between that member of the mint family and me. Yes, I'm a Scorpio. No, lavender hasn't scared me away. Some days I wonder, however, if the dried flowers on my wall don't complete with the Dream Catcher above my bed, peaceful dreams one night, toss and turn nightmares the next.
Next, lavender's multiple direct uses of lavender have been discussed ad infinitum. An indirect contribution, one I now bemoan, is the flower's infusion into red wine via the terroir or terrain particularly Rosé. Actually, the word-origin of lavender comes from the French, lavandre, meaning "to wash" as in permeating the soil (Thank you, Wikipedia.) And with the onset of spring, I had looked forward to indulging. Alas, between medical issues, including a newly acquired allergy to the histamines in red wine, I've had to forsake drinking the aromatic elixir, for now. Still, I have my lavender.
So when I gaze at those tied, slightly aromatic sprigs that bring a little Provence into my small bedroom, I reflect on the beginnings of lavandula; the charming movie that taught me a lesson and the lavender-infused earth that produce great wines. And, of course, my days visiting Aix-en-Provence: taking in a Renoiresque, picture-window view of a terrace garden at Le Clos Violette; drinking a superb, local red; eating langoustines and picturing those lavender fields that would help produce such a sensuous memory.
[If you'd like to travel with me to France and other places, watch my narrated, scored video at http://youtu.be/RaYwJm9Cz5I , Part One, which includes a story about my serendipitous experience with the earthy driver.]
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