Thursday, March 15, 2012

Reading between the Lines

or Histories

You'd think that anything written on a scroll of papyrus would bristle with the wisdom and experience of ancient cultures:  chronicles of might and conquest, disputes on philosophical matters, records of scientific discoveries.  Tales of battle and love among the gods, or maybe gossipy anecdotes of misbehavior in high places—those would be OK, too.  While there's a fair amount of all that, a lot of papyri are plain old financial records.  Household accounts.  Numbers and lists.  They were just thrown out on the ancient Egyptian dust heaps, there to await discovery by future generations.  (And 2,000-year-old Egyptian dust heaps must by now be very dusty indeed.)

To romantics, lists of income and expense don't have much appeal.  To historians, though, they're meat and drink.  When you find out how people made and spent money, you find out something about what they valued, how they ran their households, what they ate.  You might not learn much about that culture's most epic achievements, but by reading between the lines you can learn a lot about what people did every day, and what their lives were like.


Sand lovegrass (Eragrostis trichodes)

I was thinking about papyrus and scrolls (and Piroulines) while looking at new growth in the sand lovegrass.  Young shoots are beginning to come in with enthusiasm, and they are a bright, lively, unscarred green.  The wide blades of fresh grass hardly resemble last year's growth, though.  The older blades curled inward as they dried; each one is ridged and hollowed.  Seasonal death took each blade and seed stalk in a unique way, giving the old growth texture and character.  It has a history, a tale to tell.

Tales aren't only the province of the old, of course.  Many of the bright young things in the garden have stories of their own.  This crocus, for example, lost part of a petal, on only its second day of blooming.  (I don't know how long that is in crocus years.)


Crocus tomasiniana 'Ruby Giant'

What happened?  What hungry insect stopped in for a bite, or what wind took advantage of a weak spot to shear the petal off as it opened in the sun? 

This tulip, too, has already had a hard-knock life:

Tulipa praestans 'Shogun'

It hasn't even gotten around to budding yet, but its leaves are battered and misshapen, especially compared to the pristine curves of its neighbors.  What happened to it, all those inches underground, between its fall planting and the day it broke the surface a few weeks ago?  What obstacle did it struggle against as it grew?  I know about as much as if I were looking at Egyptian hieroglyphs with no Rosetta Stone to guide me.  A story lies within, but what?  Without knowing the language of flowers, I can't read between the lines. 

What do they matter anyway, the small stories of the daily lives of plants?  What do they matter, any more than the daily lives of people who lived so many centuries ago?  What difference does knowing the price of lentils in ancient Egypt make to the price of lentils today?  Maybe none.  But maybe, knowing that someone went to market and paid hard-earned cash for food, thinking about menus and servings and the possibility of leftovers, maybe knowing that could ignite some spark of realization—an insight, a sense of connection, of continuity.

The sense that in some small way, we are akin.

16 comments:

  1. Lovely philosophical musings Stacy. I will think about toiling over my tax records in a different light now. ;>) Indeed we all get a bit rumpled in the elements of life. It is good to remember how all life is connected. Beautiful images and thoughts. I have missed reading your well crafted posts. Happy Spring to you! Carol

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    1. Thank you, Carol. Yes, some future historians will be ecstatically happy to come across your tax records many years from now. All those deductions that are such a pain to itemize now will be useful and instructive in generations to come... Happy Spring to you, too--may it bring many more lovely, less rumpling things than 1040 forms!

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  2. A two-day-old crocus is in later middle-age, if my specimens are representative of the species.
    Watching half-chewed bulbs surviving the odds and flowering beautifully nonetheless must be the best cure for depression.

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    1. Late middle-age sounds about right, b-a-g. Beginning to put on weight and sag a bit and grumble a little more in the morning.
      I'm always astonished at how plants thrive despite all kinds of obstacles (we'll ignore the ones that die given every opportunity to succeed). Gardening really is an exercise in hope.

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  3. Ah, such a wonderful post Stacy. I love stories and to think about people---who came before me, who will come after and what will I learn and what will I leave behind?

    Thanks so sharing!

    Blessings,
    Elaine

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    1. Elaine, I'm so happy to see you back in "action"! I love those kinds of stories, too, and that sense of continuity.

      A big, warm hug,
      Stacy

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  4. This post will cost me hours. Because now I will look at each little plant and wonder why they're not perfect. I'll mull over their history. I'll agonize over their injuries. And I'll worry about each little leaf and petal. I've always thought of my plants as 'things' that mostly amuse me. Now I'll think of them as individuals with history.

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    1. Well, Holley, we've all been concerned that you might not have enough to do in the garden... I think those individual plants with their histories enjoy being agonized over, just a little bit. (OK, I'm making that up.)

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  5. https://plus.google.com/u/1/101279341122729150025/posts/HBBZAbkrmsE
    Are you near or affected by the fierce wind? You OK?

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    1. Diana, I've responded at EE, but again, thank you so much for thinking of me! I'm in the middle of the wind storm but just fine. Tasting dust all day is about the worst of it.

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  6. Recently on Hadrian's Wall 'they' discovered some dried mud letters from the Roman soldiers garrisoned there. One of them was to the guy's parents (I think) asking for some wool under-pants. It can get awfully cold on the Scottish borders (then and now) and that little connection with someone two thousand years ago is just priceless. I'm annoyed that I didn't know the word papyri. Dave

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    1. It does sound like the cold and damp of winter on the Scottish border transcends the centuries, Dave. And you just know that if the soldier's parents wrote back, his mother at least was asking whether he was eating enough vegetables and getting enough rest. Papyrus isn't really a word one needs to know the plural of these days, though papyri looks awfully cool in print for some reason. Papyrologist was a new one to me when I wrote this post.

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  7. That's odd. I distinctly remember leaving a comment here - guess I forgot to hit publish. (Unless I was so rude that you had to delete me)? Anyway, all I said was that recently on Hadrian's Wall 'they' discovered some clay letter tablets from the garrison soldiers to their loved ones back home. One in particular was asking for some wooly underpants! I guess the Scottish borders were as chilly then as now - especially when wearing a short tunic! And papyri is my word of the day - wonder if I'll get a chance to use it. D

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    1. Dave, you did, you did leave a comment! Is Blogger exacting its revenge on you and not letting you see your handiwork any more? (Otherwise, see above...) You'd have to be much ruder than a mere mention of underpants (let alone ancient Roman wooly underpants) for me to delete a comment, I promise. A short tunic at the Scottish borders sounds unwise almost all year round, at least from the impression Mr. K gives. No wonder the Empire failed. If you do get a chance to use papyri, do tell how it went over. That is to say, if you get to use the word. Double points if you use actual papyri.

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  8. Hadrain's Wall is in a very bleak chilly part of the borders. It must have been tough for these sun loving Mediterranean Romans. I now have a lovely mental image of the soldier's mother knitting him a pair of woolly long johns. Very uncomfortable when they get wet in The Scottish rain I would imagine...
    Love the connections in your post, Stacy.

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    1. Oh, I hadn't thought about how uncomfortable wet wool would be, Janet--if the ancient Romans had had moisture-wicking microfibers, the history of the world would be much different.

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