The Miracle Flower

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields

Another beauty growing in my mom's garden. Vibrant red and by the looks of it one of her favourites. I had a look in the garage and saw countless seedheads that were left there to dry. I know mom uses them in her floral displays and I suppose that's another reason they grow in such abundance in her garden. Her poppies were nearing the end of their flowering season so I'm counting myself lucky to have been able to catch them while there were still a few left in bloom.


Folklore has it poppies growed in places where someone was killed and that the plant drank the blood of the victims and stored it in it's petals. I suppose that's what inspired the poem by John McCRea after seeing poppies grow in the fields of carnage in Flanders. His poem inspired another by Moina Michael which ultimately led to people wearing poppies on days of Remembrance and Memorial.


We Shall Keep the Faith
by Moina Michael, November 1918

Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields,
Sleep sweet - to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.

We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.

And now the Torch and Poppy Red
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields

Long time ago when I was in school we visited those fields where the Great War was fought. I don't think it meant much to me at the time seeing those fields where once man had fought a war. The sites were still very much intact only now they were green with grass. Not the red coloured fields of death. Underneath the verdant green grass you could still make out the shape of the mounds of earth where once bombs had created havoc. I felt so removed from it all at the time. I was about 13 or 14 years old then and that Great War, a war that was to be the end of all wars, didn't impress me much at the time. At least not until I entered the mausoleum and saw the bones, the rows of bones and skulls of thousands of unknown soldiers who fought to their death.


Hmmm, strange how the mind sometimes wanders, it wasn't my intention to talk about death, in fact I was hoping this would turn into a story on the beauty of the poppy. maybe it will, maybe it won't. It's just that now somehow I can see in my mind the rows upon rows of bones in all shapes and sizes stacked on top of another in that Mausoleum. I guess age adds an appreciation and understanding of history and greater empathy for the suffering of others even if it was oh so long ago. Somehow it is entwined with a greater understanding and empathy of and for the world we live in today.

I took the pic above at the War Cemetery in Oosterbeek last year where I spent some time one afternoon in the sun walking past the hundred or so graves of soldiers who fought in that other great war, World War II. It's not a large cemetery but I am ashamed to admit it was the first time I'd ever been there and ashamed to admit it was the first time I had taken some interest in the history of the city I live in; Arnhem, a city that played such an important role in the history of The Netherlands, WWII and Operation Market Garden. I spent some time in the shade contemplating how my visit to Oosterbeek, which is not far from Arnhem, only 20 minutes by bike, made me feel.

In a way that simple, frail, delicate red flower is as good a way as any I can find to sum it all up. The poppy is a symbol of what connects us all. It connects us to our history and the beliefs of our ancestors. To the history being made today and the beliefs we have now. And that is why it is the Miracle Flower.



More on the history of the poems and The Great War can be found here.

Pluto

Another celestial connection but now of a different kind. One of Pluto's plants with a Saturnian ring, a close-up of Rudbeckia Occidentalis "Green Wizard" with a ladybug that has landed on it's sepals.

So just what are Pluto plants? Well, for a more detailed explanation of how plants are connected to the planets and other celestial bodies have a look here at Alchemy Works, I found it an interesting connection and one that I was only slightly aware of in that I knew sunflowers and Helenium species (Helenium, known in Dutch as Zonnekruid - zon = sun) have a connection to the sun, but I had never really realised that other celestial bodies have a connection to plants as well according to plant lore.

Pluto, the God of transformation, doorways, absence and of birth and rebirth, is linked to plants that have strong and hidden qualities, deep roots and bulbs, are connected in some way to poison and death, and have black flowers. As far as I'm aware Rudbeckia's are not poisenous but it's not something I'm willing to try out or would advise anyone to do. Its flower essence is used for reaching the hidden depths of the soul and helps with contacting one's shadow side. But to me they are another garden favourite and over the years I have learnt to appreciate their long period of flowering as well as the fact that they attract bees and butterflies and like in this pic other insects as well. I planted only one seed of the Green Wizard last year just to see what it would look like and am pleasantly surprised by the way it has turned out, I will definitely be sowing some more!

Some Pluto magic:
Changes in consciousness
Death and resurrection
Endings and beginnings
Achieving spiritual goals
Shedding of old personal aspects
Purging

Digging below the surface to reveal what is hidden: learning secrets, the unconscious, the inner journey.

Transformative sexual energy
Psychic energy used to manipulate or control
Can be used to work through self-destructive urges
An energy that builds slowly

Interesting thing about reading up on the Green Wizard is that the golden pollen that has formed is known as a Ring of Saturn, yet another celestial connection! And then there is the ladybug that has landed on it. This is just one coincidence after another. According to ladybug lore it is also known as the "Beetles of Our Lady", the red wings representing the Virgin's cloak and the black spots her sorrows and joys.

Celestial tears

As the heart-piercing pupil of the eye,
So sensitive each tear-drop seems to be ;
Like the unwinking pupil of the eye,
Charming my soul, the bright drops look at me.
excerpt from The Virgin Tears, Leo Alishan

Growing in my mom's garden is a plant that I love, the Alchemilla Vulgaris. The fine hairs on the leaves hold on to water that was once used in alchemy and known as celestial water or celestial tears. Like most things that have a celestial connection the Alchemilla Vulgaris' scalloped leaves give the plant it's common name Lady's Mantle. In Medieval known as Our Lady's Mantle it is named for the Virgin Mary and is used in herbal remedies. While I was looking into the plant I came across Mary Gardens. While I am not religious in any way or form I found the idea of gardens dedicated to the Virgin Mary that have plants growing in them that have some connection to her quite moving.

Gardens Give Mary Glory

These are the loveliest of her litanies,
These are gardens where the glad abounding earth
Still gush the Holy Spirit's primal mirth
In endlessly renewed diversities.

These from the faithful and fecund soil
Are generations that have called her blest,
They magnify her always without rest
While man's sad cyclic ages still uncoil.

They beat the perfumed air with noiseless sound,
They ring out her renown, freshly repeat
Her names taught them by men whose pulses beat
With God's great rhythm of the Seasons' round.

Each garden gives her glory, chants her praise
Even in harsh and hostile places where
Men have forgotten gentleness and prayer,
And what still canticles waft through their days.

Who plants a garden builds a carillon
To peal her praises with the pulse of time,
And laud her with the earth's loveliest, lasting chime
In bright, unalterable antiphon.

- Liam Brophy