Y. Naraki


There is comfort in seeds. It is the end of January, I have followed the advice of our dear friend Debra and have retreated from online media noises. Coincidentally I received a presumptuous, but not unwelcome publication from Richters through the actual mail. It is a small but densely informative pamphlet. Wrapped up in one of my Mamgu’s Welsh wool blankets, I cocoon myself against winter, against politics, celebrities and disease hysteria. Muttering the list of names in the Richters’ seed catalogue,  I cocoon myself and plan for spring.

Slowly working through from Korean Angelica to Zuta Levana, there is a world of herbs and spices to grow. We do not plant Cocklebur. Cocklebur, or Xanthum, is a brash annual, the seed heads clutch desperately at anything that passes. Like politicians and diseases it endures despite our disdain but serves a purpose in the ecosystem. I look at this photograph, snuggle deeper into my blanket cocoon, and imagine the spiky burrs clinging to the arses of presidents, senators, premiers and MPs. Even Cocklebur has its uses.




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