Embodied Imagination

11/18/20 • 2 min

I am Ashwagandha. “The smell of a horse” is my Sanskrit meaning. Though I am not a horse, my name conjures images of horses—manes whipping in the wind as they gallop along deserted beaches on the Arabian Sea or climb high plateaus in Nepal and Uzbekistan. Wild, ferocious, and free are the ways you describe me.

Under the right conditions, I can be obedient. For those who tame me, I calm nerves and slow racing hearts. I am the herbal supplement Indian ginseng; I am poison gooseberry, from the nightshade family.

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Previous Episode

Around the Bend

During the pandemic I don’t seem to know what day it is. My regular work has become so entirely irregular that the foundation upon which my full catastrophe—as Zorba the Greek would call it—once balanced now rests upon a teeter totter whose lead-based paint flakes off its dried out 2x6 and creaks on rusty hinges in a wind which is very strong today.

Dried out maple leaves fly by my window on unseasonably warm gusts, 35-40 knots out of the Southwest. This is no sultry Nat King Cole Autumn Leaves kind of wind, ‘C'est une chanson Qui nous ressemble’ but a blaster that makes all the apples drop.

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Farm Share

It is the season of bizarre vegetables. Being the thoughtful Vermonter that I am, I subscribe to a local farm share. Every two weeks I get a basket—actually it is a yellow plastic bag—filled with fresh produce. This is the time of year when my “Standard Family Share” gets weird. Red and yellow carrots, entire branches of Brussels sprouts, parsnips, and kohlrabi find their way into my kitchen. Who are these strangers?

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