words Melissa Raymond
Standing tall, a strong and well-structured wisteria vine commands my attention from the window seat within. The wind howls, as forms of mother nature bend and move rhythmically to the outdoor tune. Lashings of rain attack the ground—creating an array of puddles, as the streams of flowing water fill the gaping cracks which surround the wisteria vine.
It’s winter and the arctic blasts are viewed best from my window seat within. It’s peaceful, a place where my thoughts are simple—no ambition takes hold, just observation, and withdrawal, as so many have done years before. I often think of Martha, the lady who lived here over a century ago, and was remembered for the peaceful hours she spent in the garden.
28th of July 2021, I sit to view the magnificent wisteria vine, surrounded by the comforts of a cozy, log fire and a soul-warming cup of tea. Each sip allows another moment to ponder at the glorious view from my window seat within. The warmth is my friend, I think to myself, as I unwind into pleasant thoughts of the life the wisteria vine has led. Heavy eyes and soft cushions beneath allow a moments rest as I fall into a sleep….
“Martha! Where are you?” I bellow from my window, searching the ground.
“Out in the garden, dear!”
“You have been here for hours!”
She turns her head upward to speak. “Mrs Schilling has given me a cutting from her wisteria vine. The one that covers her front porch with glorious shade during summer. She knows I love to admire the flowers every spring.”
“Mrs Schilling’s vine is well over 50 years old, Martha; you’ll be doing well if you live that long.”
“Well today is a special day, in the year of 1900. I have lived enough to know another will enjoy this wisteria vine in all her glory.”
Suddenly with a swift jolt, my heads lifts. My eyes glazed, I gather my thoughts and wake from a daytime dream. How odd that was, I think to myself. I felt a presence beside me, as though Martha was just… I look around and note, it is just me, alone.
The wisteria vine governs the vast expanse of the garden in all her strength. She does not move as the wind howls, invigorating small trees and shrubs that surround. The wisdom it holds, spiritual, with a thick, gnarly, wooden skin—twisted and leaning as though an old wise lady is within.