–by Pavithra Mehta (Mar 11, 2016)
There is something arresting and unearthly about a magnolia tree in flower.
Something that dances between divinity and dementia.
A whirling dervish of a tree.
Bursting with grace and an utter lack of restraint.
See how it holds up its leafless branches.
A candelabra, extravagantly ablaze with lunatic blossoms and zero sense of rationing or self-preservation.
See how these flowers, some the size of your clenched fist, some the size of your whole hand, yawn open, with such unrestrained ardor it nearly turns them inside out.
See how they do not bloom so much as detonate, in a series of soft explosions.
See how like the fleshy tongues of dragons they are.
These enormous creamy petals streaked with sunset shades.
How their thick scent drugs the air.
Drowns all thought in sweetness.
An ancient tree architected for prehistoric times.
Magnolias have bloomed on Earth for 100 million years.
These flowers opened above the heads of dinosaurs, long before humankind was a twinkle in the eye of the Universe.
And because they predate even the bees, their propagation across time and space was left to outsized beetles, who stricken with wanderlust stumbled across these velvety inner chambers.
Kicked up a dusty cloud of pollen and unleashed a long chain of events that unfurled across the last Ice Age, and into the Stone Age and alongside the rise and fall of nameless tribes and civilizations, and the creation of the printing press, the steam engine, frothy cappuccinos and the birth of the internet, leading improbably to this very tree.
The one directly in front of me.
The one my husband strolls under at the exact moment that a little lick of wind decides to kick up its heels.
A handful of petals drift gently over him like a benediction.
An origami instant that folds itself into my palm.
Dear and delicate as a paper crane.
Later I will look up what magnolia flowers symbolize.
Nobility, beauty, dignity….Dignity…
I think about the word.
How it stands tall and runs deep and how much it has to do with integrity and how little with being — normal.
I think about this outlandish tree that traces back to Time’s cradle, and its flowers that open alarmingly wide as if to swallow the sun, the way it gives itself madly to the moment. With radical generosity and no reservation. And what wouldn’t be possible — if we could learn to live like that.