The first orchids that ever floated into my consciousness were in the corsages of high school dances.  I can still feel the belly sickness over a very real possibility of being overlooked, uninvited.  And if someone did ask me, I worried, my date would not give me an orchid.  Or it wouldn’t be as perfect as what the other girls received.  Sad to say, when young, orchids equaled anxiety.  Thankfully, I’ve outgrown most disquietudes, with the exception of the state of our world, and not having enough time to sit and think, to ponder, to write.

Orchids now fill a fair amount of my consciousness.   Along with this series of writings for Marissa Bridge’s orchid paintings, visiting exhibits for a glimpse of the best specimens, a vital variety lines my window sills.  Most miraculously flower in the deepest breath of winter, yet some bloom their heads off all year round.

Not a single young girl anticipating a broken heart was mentioned in reading about the symbols of orchids.  There is plenty to be found on their beauty, their perfection, their portrayal of love, and because they originally grew only in remote and exotic places, their association with luxury.  They also represent innocence and femininity, and full blown virility, the whole monty, the hermaphrodite.  Most importantly, they serve as potent reminders, in spite of these anxious times, this is still a beautiful world.