The secret life of plants.
A friend of mine once compared me to one of Italo Calvino’s characters. According to her, there were parallels between the Cuban-born, Italian writer’s creation, Marcovaldo, and me. Specifically how Marcovaldo could go into a reverie whenever he found himself in the green spaces of the big industrial city in northern Italy where he lived with his family.
I, too, spend an awful amount of my time daydreaming about nature in my urban surroundings. Raised tarmacked surfaces on canal towpaths, the result of tree roots growing underground, never fail to excite me, even if they make it tricky to cycle. Vegetation growing wildly and unexpectedly out of a crack on a wall leaves me pondering over nature’s power and drive to survive at all costs.
That’s why I love the above photo. I took it recently during a visit to St Bartholomew the Great, or St Barts as it’s commonly known. This is an Anglican church that dates back to 1123. Yet those gnarled tree branches strangling the wall like a wooden anaconda make me think of something as old as or older than the building itself.
To the left of the photo lies the entrance to the church. To the right one finds one’s way into the financial heart of London, its banks and vaults. God and Mammon. Separated by nature. All I can think of is Stevie Wonder’s words: “But who am I to doubt or question the inevitable being/for these are but a few discoveries/ we find inside the secret life of plants”.
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