It was the grass. Not the pleasant feeling grass underfoot tickling between my toes or magnificence rolling green hills in the distance. It wasn't prairie grass swaying in the wind like sea waves--although seeing that can be a somewhat religious experience too. No, it was sharp thick up-pricked blades in clear obstruction of my vision on the manicured lawn of the Sinnissippi rose garden, as I fell into their cushion. Tickled to death by my three-year-old just as the sun was beginning to set, I flopped down, rolling my head to the side and slacked my jaw in mock defeat. When I reopened my eyes after a single moment of stolen rest I saw them-- really saw them: wide, rich, earthly bodies-- each unique--bursting up from the soft ground around where my head crushed down their neighbors. On my cheeks, lips, eyebrows and head I felt their mighty presence while my nose-- already spoiled by roses all around-- took in their luxurious fragrance.
I spent most of this day at a craft fair where some of the best artists in the United States were gathered, displaying their fantastical wares of creativity; I saw things that only appear in dreams, fantastical manifestations of genius minds and yet not one creation there could begin to rival the earth's own ingenuity in decorating herself. Donning billions of intricate individual spears of emerald, each with its own pattern, size, and ability to breath and rejuvenate, the earth moves in splendor, her own hand of wind rustling and smoothing the folds of her extravagant attire. That is to say nothing of the classy way that the she subtly perfumes herself with a finer fragrance than that of any rose in the garden (we know because we have spent a lot of time smelling every single variety this summer) with these soft prickling gems so that the lowliest of creatures-- grubs, beetles and earthworms-- can live in a splendid heaven of scent.
I am not the only one to have found a secret glory in grass. Walt Whitman, for one, understood how complex and elegant can be the world of grass. Rachel Carson too, learned and imagined through watching the grass grow. Sadly, grass gets a bad rap, as it is the yard cover of choice in Suburbia, Everystate, USA. Grass is a trademark component of overly-groomed micromanaged yards, parks, and properties that tie back, cut down, bind up or burn down the natural landscape in favor of some ideal of trimmed green predictable and sterile scape. However, while I can easily agree with many of those sentiments, I feel that as a helpless plant, grass has been overused, misused, and abused by our culture with little to no fault of its own. On the contrary, its overuse, as with so many things in the world, stems from its very pleasant nature, from its beauty, veratility, flexibility, and predictability. Grasses of all kinds are extraordinary plants and even the most mundane of grasses that fill our eyeballs everyday to the brim with their preppy pristine greenness have a quality of magnificence and majesty when examined--or nay, experienced-- up close. Even corporations know it. In a depressing scheme to bottle and sell the awakening glory of a blade of grass, a person can buy a "grass" scented perfume. If big-box brother can see it from the stuffy 27th-floor office in the sky far removed from any grass anywhere, you too should see it clearly every day.
Grass is sweetly scented poetry that any person can enjoy. It is free and abundant. So take the time to calm your ever-bustling feet and stop a minute or two to lower yourself and smell beneath the roses.
