[Sacred Succulents] New Year's Blessings: Botanical Reflections

[benkamm at monitor.net]

(do not ?reply? to this email, send all correspondence to - 
sacredsucculents at hushmail.com )

12/31/11

Greetings to all,

December being the month of my birth, and when night casts its longest 
shadow, is also a time of introspection. I had recently been thinking 
about the unique ethnobotanical knowledge of children. Not usually one for 
extended nostalgic reverie, I now find myself pondering aspects of the 
first ten years of my life. Consider what follows a Solstice offering if 
you will, a nod to the past, a small sharing of self. Perchance you will 
find it entertaining or it will inspire your own cascade of recollections. 


My early memories are a kaleidoscope of sensation, incandescent joys and 
virgin melancholies. This is still mirrored to me when I hear the early 
70s music of Joni Mitchell, Cat Stevens, Janis Ian. Like that music which 
wove itself through my initial years and in some way gave form to who I 
am, I?ve come to recognize that there was a whole panoply of plants that 
also infected me with their enchantments, infusing something potent, deep 
within the roots of my being. Bear with me as I meander through memories 
from my first decade that still exude an aura of magic, yet to be washed 
away by the cleansing flood of time... 
        Around the age of 3 we lived on a farm nestled in a valley south 
of the city of San Luis Obispo in Central California. It is here that my 
vegetal initiation began. I remember watching my mom transplant small 
seedlings from paper cups into mounds of sweet smelling freshly tilled 
dark earth. Becoming cognizant of how I could help, I carefully followed 
behind her pulling the tender young plants out of the soil. It wasn?t 
until she got to the end of the row and turned around that she discovered 
what I was doing and gently set me on the right track. Sometime later that 
year I recall the joy of struggling to pull the serpentine garden hose 
over to water sunflowers that were beginning to tower over my head, a 
feeling of gratitude emanating from their large leaves that waved to me in 
the warm summer breeze. 
        The next year in preschool I was introduced to the miracle of 
sprouting beans, inspecting them each day, snuggled warm and moist in a 
bed of paper towels on the windowsill. The timeless wonder of life?s spark 
as they swelled, their skin split and the roots emerged, then cotyledon 
leaves, pushing up, seeking light. The distinct earthy-sour aroma of this 
process. The excitement of filling cups with dirt and carefully planting 
the naked seedlings within. This was undoubtedly the single most valuable 
lesson I learned in school. Germinating seeds is still one of the great 
passions of my life.
        Growing at the edges of the school playground was a lowly mallow 
plant with rounded leaves and small pinkish flowers. What all the children 
appreciated most was the little rounded immature seed clusters which 
inspired the name ?cheeseweed?. We would collect these miniature rounds of 
green veggie-cheese and when enough were in hand we?d gobble them up, 
relishing the mucilaginous texture and vaguely cheesy flavor. 
        Around this time someone demonstrated to me how to select the 
tender young fennel stalks and peel the fibrous skin back to get to the 
crisp and juicy sweet flesh. The flavor was beguiling and I could spend 
many a happy moment peeling and crunching stalk after emerald stalk. This 
became one of my favored snacks, no patch was safe from my ardent 
ravishings. 
When I was around the age of 5 my mom moved to an old sprawling house on a 
farm in the rolling hills south of Arroyo Grande, about 20 miles from San 
Luis Obispo. This we christened Ft. Avocado on account of the large 
avocado trees that ringed the property. It was something of a wonderland 
for my small self and I came under the almost tutelary influence of  many 
plants there. The small purple-black skinned avocados were in excess much 
of the year, hundreds littering the ground, slowly decaying into a sugary 
smelling sticky mulch. As well as becoming projectiles for my reenactments 
of epic battles from Star Wars or Thundarr the Barbarian, they were a 
constant source of nourishment, most often sliced in half, dashed with 
balsamic vinegar and spooned into my eager mouth. My mom was continually 
churning out guacamole and more experimental but highly successful 
creations like avocado pie and chocolate sauce. In the diffused light of 
the kitchen windowsill we were perpetually sprouting avocado pits by 
piercing them with a few toothpicks to suspend them partway in a jar of 
water, gifting the resulting treelets to friends and family. 
        Just outside the kitchen door was a shrub with large velvety 
leaves and huge, double trumpet, white flowers which exhaled an exquisite 
scent. This plant seemed to exert some spell over me. I recall many times 
staring at the shrub, enthralled by the scent of the flowers, sitting on 
the kitchen steps carefully peeling away the outer blossom to examine the 
convoluted one within, a heavenly pillowed landscape for hundreds of tiny 
insects. The plant seemed vaguely mammallian to me, associating the soft 
down of the leaves and blossoms with the fuzz on my slender arms or the 
skin of the pink babies that my pet rat, Rattie-Tat, had recently birthed 
(and soon devoured in a cannabilistic nightmare!) I now know this 
bewitching shrub to be the white angel?s trumpet, Brugmansia x candida, 
well respected by horticulturalists and shamans alike. 
        In the large open living room of the house there was a 
reproduction of Hieronymus Bosch?s painting The Garden of Earthly Delights
, which I found utterly fascinating and disturbing. I spent a good deal of 
time lost in the pleasures and horrors of that wondrous and deranged 
landscape. In the shady areas outside the house dwelled another plant that 
seemed an unmistakable hybrid of vegetal and animal. It evoked the same 
fascination as Bosch?s art, in fact looked like something right out of the 
painting, a confrontation with living ambivalence. An Arum species whose 
obscene fleshy purple flowers erupted from the ground to emit a noxious 
stench akin to rotting meat with delicate overtones of excrement. All 
manner of flies and beetles found this irresistible and performed curious 
dances upon the blossoms. As the vaginal spathe withered, the phallic 
spadix swelled lewdly into what looked to me to be a devilish bright-red 
corn cob. This I knew instinctually to be toxic. 
        Out back of the house in the shade of the avocado trees were a 
series of ornate shallow cement ponds with small cement bridges connecting 
them, probably the creation of someone?s faery-infested nostalgic 
Victorian longing. The bottom of the ponds had cracked many years before, 
so they never held water. Surrounding the ponds and often scrambling 
within was an extensive patch of nasturtium, their large round leaves 
providing shade for the various insects and toads that I was always on the 
hunt for. My mom showed me to eat the regal orange and red flowers whose 
spicy flavor was a strange delight. The rounded green seeds were a small 
treasure to me, a faery jewel, the way they rolled between my fingers, fit 
in the palm of my hand, filled the pockets of my overalls. 
        Scattered around the property were patches of Oxalis pes-caprae, 
which we knew as ?sour grass?. The clover like leaves I identified with 
shamrocks, leprechauns and Irish ancestors. I thought that the bright 
yellow flowers were a clear signature of an affinity with citrus, the 
intense sour juice running through the stalks was surely the same juice 
that swelled the lemon. This ubiquitous weed was a refreshing snack that 
appeared to grow in every suburban backyard, even at school. All the kids 
around my age highly esteemed chewing the stems. I still ponder what it is 
about the sour flavor (oxalic acids) that children find so magnetic (my 
own son Shannon went through a phase of coveting an Andean species that is 
semi-weedy in our greenhouse). Most of us leave behind the craving for 
intensely sour flavors with adulthood, by my mid-teens it had lost its 
appeal.
        There were several large Canary Island date palms on the land. I 
would imagine their massive columnar trunks to be the lumbering legs of a 
brontosaurus or wooly mammoth. The small yellow dates that showered the 
ground beneath the trees were mostly pit and no one paid them much 
attention, yet I found the thin stringy layer of sweet chewy flesh 
delectable and would squirrel them away for snacking.
        There was a large castor bean bush that I found a little 
intimidating, the deep blood-red new growth, the spiky seed capsules, the 
veins of the huge palmate leaves radiating from a single point that 
appeared to gaze at me like the eye of the cyclops. My mom mistakenly tied 
our goat, Rosie, near the plant one day which led to the demise of both 
bush and goat.
        I loved to accompany my mom on the short walk to check the mailbox 
because of the large honeysuckle vine that ran rampant all along the 
dilapidated, lichen-encrusted fence bordering the property. The small 
glistening drop of nectar to be found within each yellow and orange flower 
was an ecstatic lesson in sweetness. 
        There was a small shaded stream that ran through the lower part of 
the land, the cool domain of polywogs, waterbeetles and nettles. It was 
here as well as San Luis Creek that I first discovered the sharp biting 
kiss of nettles, bringing tears and a persistent sting, yet for some 
reason I was continually drawn to experience this, even long for it at 
times. A good satisfying pain. 
        Just up the hill from the creek at the edge of the property was a 
hole in the fence where I could climb through to an open meadow and make 
tunnels in the aromatic green grass that towered over my head. In the 
middle of that field was my secret fort: a large poison oak bush with a 
hollowed cavity in the center of it. I remember laying in the embrace of 
its womb, feeling snug and content watching the dynamic play of sunshine 
amongst the leaves...it seems I was immune to the plant?s wrath, I never 
developed the rash, though others may have gotten it from me more than 
once...
        During the school week I lived with my dad in suburban San Luis 
Obispo. From him I learned of the necessity for houseplants and how to 
care for them, mostly varieties of Pothos and Monstera and the small tree 
that inexplicably shared my name, Ficus benjamina. Occasionally, with my 
insistence, we?d venture into more exotic territory. The local Safeway 
periodically stocked those chlorophyll-deprived grafted cacti that were so 
popular in the 1980s: Gymnocalycium and Chaemaecereus mutants. How could a 
child resist the strange geometric forms and flourescent pinks, oranges, 
yellows and reds of these monstrosities? Appearing more akin to a 
grotesque pez dispenser than a living entity. They never survived more 
than year, the Hylocereus stock inevitably shriveling brown and the scion 
slowly losing its luster and turning to mush. The other houseplant I 
repeatedly convinced my dad to bring home only to perish were those 
amazing hybrid Begonia (Rex Cultorum group) with the crazy wrinkled and 
serrated leaves aswirl with exquisite color and patterns, disappointingly 
ephemeral in our hands.
        My dad and I spent a good deal of time exploring the golden hills, 
granite capped mountains, oak filled valleys and expansive coastline of 
SLO County. We tried eating many feral foods: cattail rhizomes and flower 
stalks, miner?s lettuce, spicy wild mustard and salty salads of New 
Zealand spinach. Black sage (Salvia mellifera) and California sagebrush (
Artemisia californica) provided the signature scent. Even today the smell 
of these aromatic plants invokes a wistful echo of my youthful wanderings. 
The dominant tree throughout much of the landscape was the coast live oak 
(Quercus agrifolia). There were so many of these charming noble trees that 
I spent time with, the gargantuan sprawling branches a welcoming 
playground, offering cool shade in the heat of summer, the architecture of 
their limbs and rough bark perfect for climbing and building tree houses, 
the leaf litter the abode of all sorts of interesting insects and the 
worm-like slender salamander. The acorns were always finding their way 
into my pockets. I tried eating the meat raw on numerous occasions, they 
looked so edible to me and I could never quite accept the astringency that 
greeted my tongue when I bit into a carefully peeled acorn. In the denser 
woodlands large colonies of pitcher sage, Salvia spathacea, carpetted the 
ground beneath the oaks, emitting a fruity smell when trampled. The 
hundreds of erect flower stalks with their large globose whorls of bright 
flowers hypnotized me. After observing the frenzied affairs of 
hummingbirds in their midst I was thrilled to discover that the magenta 
flowers secreted a delicious dollop of honey-nectar within. 
        Occuring throughout the foothills of San Luis Obispo were large 
patches of prickly pear cactus, Opuntia ficus-indica. These were most 
likely introduced from Mexico during the time of the Spanish missions, but 
may have also been part of Luther Burbank?s great ?spineless cactus? 
debacle in the early 1900s. These colonies would often spread over several 
acres, the spiny pads forming a labrynthian fortress through which I would 
carefully traverse. The golden yellow flowers produced egg-sized red or 
orange fruit that I highly prized for their delicious flavor. Collecting 
and eating the fruit was a bit of a challenge. A small proportion of the 
plants were nearly spineless, but most were clothed in long vicious 
spines. I?d usually try to spear or knock off the fruits with a long 
stick. Once I had the fruits, I had to be especially cautious of the 
glochids, those miniscule barbed spines that armed the fruit. I did my 
best to avoid these by carefully slicing the fruit in half and scooping 
out the flesh, but many times I ended up with glochids in my hands or even 
my tongue and mouth. Because of this I had a strange relationship with the 
plant, and on several occasions, with a sturdy stick in hand for a sword, 
I waged war upon the cactus. Hacking and slashing the pads, the 
satisfaction of feeling the juicy innards splatter with my blows. Perhaps 
my later fascination with cactus was atonement for these violent acts or 
perhaps the plant had compelled me into what was ultimately a creative 
form of propagation rather than destruction... the pads I whacked to the 
ground would have simply rooted and grown more plants, like the severed 
heads of the mythical hydra.
        When I was 8 my mom returned to the area after living in the 
mountains of Montana and Colorado for 2 years with my step dad and infant 
brother. For the next decade they lived in a house on 20 acres outside the 
small town of Nipomo, situated on a large sandy mesa about 40 minutes 
drive south of the city of San Luis Obispo. This is where I spent most 
weekends and stretches of summer. One of the most striking features there 
was the hundreds of acres of Eucalyptus globulus trees that surrounded 
their homestead. Of Australian origin, these trees were planted in 1908, 
perfect rows laid out in large grids. The tree denied the hopes and dreams 
of that era, they were not suitable for telephone poles or lumber in 
general, so the acres of planted trees became neglected and grew into the 
dense towering forests that I came to know. The large older trees with 
many side branches were superb for climbing. Big trees with younger 
saplings growing near them provided an opportunity for a unique 
experience. After climbing 15 to 20 feet into the mother tree I could leap 
out through the air and grab hold of the sapling which would arch under my 
weight and rapidly lower me to the ground. I spent hours performing this 
joyous feat, feeling myself a primordial monkey-boy. 
        These anthropogenic forests were a perpetual source of discovery. 
In the shade of the sickle-shaped leaves with their menthol aroma and 
underneath the bark that sloughed off the trunks in large sheets I would 
find a plethora of insects and their larval infants, spiders, scorpions, 
centipedes and millipedes, toads of impressive size, slender salamanders 
that curled themselves into tiny spirals, sundry snakes, bluebelly and 
alligator lizards, the rare and coveted blue tailed skink, kangaroo mice, 
savage shrews and fantastical fungi. Scattered between the trees during 
spring and early summer bloomed pink, yellow and red flowers I never 
encountered anywhere else, still a mystery to me. Further up in the 
embrace of the trees there?d be Pacific tree frogs hiding beneath the bark 
or occasionally the yellow speckled arboreal salamander that squeeked when 
discovered. Climbing even higher would reveal all manner of intricate 
woven nests that cradled delicate eggs or the freakish fledglings of a 
considerable variety of birds. A great many moths and butterflies were 
also to be found but none quite so impressive as the migratory monarch. 
This large butterfly, vibrant orange with bold black veination, would 
arrive in autumn at select trees by the thousands to perch in dangling 
masses and overwinter. It?s hard to capture with words the wonder and 
strangeness of this phenomenon, standing beneath a tree in exultation, 
half of the branches scaled in their overlapping orange and black wings. 
How they all periodically moved their wings in unison, as if to one 
heartbeat, the inhalation and exhalation of one organism. How I would feel 
this pulse manifest in my own body. Tree, butterfly and boy as one. Grace.
        Eventually I heard the grumblings about how Eucalyptus didn?t 
belong here, the forests somehow harmful to other plants  and wildlife. 
This contradicted so much of my experience, but it?s a complex issue and 
I?ll leave my thoughts on this to another time. The popular maligning of 
the tree led to the 10+ acres of forest adjacent to my mom?s property, 
where my younger brothers and I had spent countless hours in play and rapt 
discovery, being clear cut and bulldozed. I was deeply saddened, like the 
loss of a whole group of friends, a vital piece of my childhood suddenly, 
irrevocably, gone. The acreage lay fallow for many years, a few forlorn 
stumps the only reminder of what was. Eventually a monocrop of 
strawberries was planted, black plastic and poison covering the once 
fertile earth... 

Peering into this reflecting pool of memory I glimpse myself in sensual 
dialogue with the world, not so much a language of words, but of emotions, 
touch, sounds, smells and tastes. An immediate intimacy with the flux of 
life. Perhaps it is our maturation into the world of words and the 
concepts they construct that blurs our recollection of those early years, 
diffusing a little our relation to life in all its myriad sensuous forms. 
Yet, paradoxically, words are what I now have to capture and share these 
echoes of childhood.
        The Aymara peoples of the Andean Altiplano acknowledge that the 
past lays not behind us, but before us, our entire history stretching to 
the horizon, yet clearly visible, the future always to our back, just over 
our shoulder, only seen as a glimpse. Coming from a culture that turns its 
back on the past, chooses instead to look for what is yet-to-be, I find it 
useful, at least for a time, to reorient myself and view my history. 
Gazing out across the geography of myself it is evident how integral and 
present the botanical realm was in my childhood, though it wasn?t until my 
late teens that I became acutely fascinated with plants. In those early 
years what really captured my greatest attention were all the creeping, 
crawling, scurrying, slithering, hopping and flying creatures. The plants 
were more an aspect of the sustaining matrix of the world, known as 
distinct living entities, but almost background to ambulatory life. Yet it 
now appears, from my current vantage, that the plants were an even greater 
molding force for me than the fistful of toads or pockets of rolly-polly 
bugs. We inhabit a scandalously fecund planet, teeming with life of every 
imaginable form. The more I consider it, perhaps facing always to the 
future engenders a fevered dream state, a phantasmal farsightedness, a 
turning away from who we are, longing to be more. This has allowed our 
culture to overcome great obstacles and manifest unparalleled wonders, but 
often at great cost. In looking out to distant stars for life we miss much 
of what is right before us. Living is coexisting, children know this 
instinctually and recognize sentience all around them. We have much to 
discover from children and from our own childhoods. 

((((((((Ben Kamm)))))))))))))

SACRED SUCCULENTS
PO Box 781, Sebastopol, CA 95473 USA
Email: sacredsucculents at hushmail.com
http://www.sacredsucculents.com

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