At thirty years old, I encountered a local writer and singer who belonged to a rock band of national fame. Since there are no innocents in this story, names and places have been purposely avoided. But naturally, a tale that has to do with orchids must be told.
After an hour of glimpses at each other in a downtown gathering establishment, the writer with floppy hair and lanky limbs sauntered up and sat beside me. In one penetrating look from piercing blue eyes, my Virgoan philosophy was about to be tested.
I was a professional horticulturist, recently separated from a marriage, first time living alone, and a wanna-be wordsmith, none of which he knew. My ex unwittingly had starved me of communication and certainly poetry, and the rock star spoke directly to the center of my needs and vanity.
“You’re an orchid, aren’t you,” he said. “A Brazilian orchid.” After another beat of observation, he added, “Cultivated, not wild.”