It’s the season of the rainbow: when the arcing spectrum of all the colors of the light descend from the sky to paint the very earth itself.
It’s a spectrum anchored by green, that shade at the bow’s very center, and as it emerges from its chrysalis of light, it tends to find expression in the hues of the bows inner arc. Oh, there are blues and purples, too, but the fruits of the season manifest largely on a short spectrum between green and red.
It’s a bit early for these yet; right now, we’re solidly in the “green and growing” stage. It won’t be long, though, before the flowers begin to bloom, heralding the arrival of the fruits and vegetables like a colorful chorus.
In matter of weeks, the squash blossoms will appear. They’re oriented toward the sun whose color they wear: large shirred star petals of brightest yellow, opening toward the east shortly after dawn, tracking Father Sun’s trek across the sky until the heat of the day becomes too much and they retire, curling closed beneath the protective shade of the leaves.
At their peak, we harvest the blossoms themselves, clean and dry them, stuff them with savory ingredients laced with herbs and eat them fresh or fried. The texture is sui generis, the flavor all its own, one that evokes the freshness of the elements from which it sprang.
Societally, we seem to have made a distinction between “food” and “flower” when it comes to plants. We think of fruits and vegetables as utilitarian: nutrition, sustenance, perhaps beautiful in their own when prepared and arranged on a plate, but not especially beautiful as things in themselves. Certainly, beans are one of those foods that seem eminently practical, rich sources of protein and nutrition, with symbolic significance as one of our Three Sisters, a staple of our peoples’ survival since the dawn of time. We don’t tend to think of them as decoratively floral.
They blossom, though — in pale ivory and light yellow and scarlet and even purple. The crimson flowers here occupied two rows of our garden a couple of years ago, sharing space and beauty with the wildflowers around the perimeter. The flowers are short-lived, of course, but a welcome sight, visual fanfare accompanying the birth of the bean pods whose fruits will sustain us through the long winter months.
And sometimes, we’re given the gift of the literal heart of the season.
In our way, we are now in the Blooming Moon; next month, we will enter the Berry Moon. In other parts of our homelands, this month is known as the Strawberry Moon, reflecting the regional differences in climate and growth patterns. And our word for the strawberry itself comes from the same root as our word for heart. The little wild strawberry above, one of our tiny local patch, makes it easy to see why: It’s the shape and shade of the heart itself.
It’s the spiritual heart of the season, too. Fully ripe, its color is crimson, its flavor a perfect tart sweetness not found in its domesticated cousins. It’s one of the sustaining spirits of summer: food for the body, a feast for eyes and palate, fare for the soul.
They are the fruits of our labors, and of the gifts of the spirits, in the colors of Summer.
~ Aji
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