Feral Pearls + Apples

A long string of pearls snakes along our ancestor table and drapes over the photos. Fake pearls. I found them at a thrift store. I have hung these pearls up the edge of frames and down the other side, twisted them on mantles, tables, dressers and shelves, in all the various places that I have called home for over 25 years.

Listen to Mary Morgaine reading ‘Feral Pearls’

I love pearls. They are the epitome of taking something irritating and turning it into something marvelous. Finding the good in the bad. Transforming pain and grief into wisdom. Hard-won beauty. Little moons holding the mystery of the cosmos that we can wear close to our hearts. The only gemstone we have made by a living creature.

Frank, my late partner, asked me more than once, “Why do you have those fake pearls around?”  I would answer “Because you haven’t given me any real pearls.” Shortly after his death, my friends Chiwa and Goodheart came to offer their loving grievances and gifted me with a gorgeous necklace of real pearls. I wondered if it was Frank’s way of finally getting me some real pearls, through our mutual beloved friends. I wore those pearls 24 hours a day for several years— in a beautiful, fancy dress, I had on my pearls. In my dirtiest mucking manure clothes, I had on my pearls. 

Then I fell in love with a man who gave me a large pearl as an engagement ring. It was his grandmother’s ring- she wore it on her pinky and it fit my ring finger perfectly. So there I was, decked out in my pearls all the time, watering my houseplants with my moonblood, picking up trash on our road, dining at a fine restaurant, writing letters to family, pulling bittersweet vines out of trees, cleaning toilets, practicing yoga, washing dishes, going to lectures, sleeping, shopping for furniture, changing the baby’s diaper- whatever the occasion, I was all pearled up.

Me in my string of (real) pearls, 2010

Until, one day, I looked in the mirror and I felt like I was looking at a Stepford wife or something. A white privileged lady seeing everything through a black and white lens. It was just too many pearls for me all of a sudden, and I didn’t want to take off my engagement ring (which by now had a wedding band attached,) so I removed the string of pearls and held them in my hand for the longest time, wondering what to do. 

I loved these pearls. Why did I suddenly feel this way about my appearance? I just became overwhelmed with myself and wanted to run away from every part of my identity yet cling to it simultaneously. Seeing myself in all these pearls slammed me into the epiphany-  “If I be this way, I cannot be that way. If I do this thing, I cannot do that thing.”  My life was limited by Crystallizations. Overlapping choices that crystalized my life in a certain way, excluding me from other paths/potentials. All the other options out there. These pearls defined me, and I was stunned by the knowledge that no matter what I chose, it was always in exchange for not doing or being something or somebody else. 

Is it just a part of growing older to realize the world is no longer your oyster?

I decided to take one of the pearls off the string and have it made into a pendant to place on a simple chain. I would just wear one pearl. (But would the chain be gold or silver or brass, or a leather string—how could I ever choose?) And I would save the string of pearls to wear for special occasions only. Yes, that felt more fitting for who I was now, yes. But who was I?

I was still the 3 year-old girl in Sunday School singing “Jesus loves the little children;” I was the 5 year-old who put my baby brother in dresses; I was the 7 year-old who collected tadpoles; the 9 year-old who found abandoned bird eggs and tried to hatch them myself; the 11 year-old who fervently wrote in my diary; the 13-year old who rode my bicycle everywhere; the 15-year old who played hooky from school; the 17 year-old who paraded around in a purple Trans Am for the homecoming parade and the 19-year-old who overdosed on candy corn and french toast and on and on into the 40-something gal I was in that moment when I decided I could no longer be who I no longer was.

I thought about the “Jesus loves the little children” song and said to myself, “What a weird song-” 

Jesus loves the little children
All the children of the world
Red and yellow black and white
They are precious in his sight
Jesus loves all the little children of the world.

What is that song suppose to mean anyway? For one, if Jesus loves everybody, we don’t have to talk about it, it’s obvious. Two, if you follow Jesus, then  how can you sing this song and condone war, oppression, colonization and industrialization- all of which harm (and kill) children?

I thought about dressing up my baby brother and the times in my life that I believed I would have any success in changing a man. Ha!

I thought about tadpoles and bird’s eggs and the innocence of youth and how I would believe in anything- anything was possible! And I still believed this.

I thought about the freedom of no bills, no rent or job— to be able to just fly around fancy free on bicycle or on foot or hitchhiking, and how that was me and now it’s not me but it sure formed me. 

I thought about that big-bang hair, stiff with L’ Oréal hairspray and my fancy Gloria Vanderbilt tight skirt and blouse, thinking I was all the rage, waving to passerby as I rode through the crowd in that ridiculous purple car. Were my pearls representing this older version of me?

And I thought about how if I didn’t know how terrible that candy corn is for my teeth (and the damage it did) and to my gut, that I might still be OD’ing on it even now, and then in a maddening frenzy that made me want to rip every bit of jewelry off my hands, ears, neck, arms, ankle- forever- because I am wild and mythic and all this domestic life makes me crazy, and I don’t ever want to be bound by metal or gemstones or sugar or anything ever, ever again!

I think that all happened on the day I first entered perimenopause, but who will ever know. 

I do know this exaggerated moment was followed by that long time, strong desire to have a dark cave retreat (which I eventually did) and a determination to consciously maintain my mystic, because modern life was/is slowly but surely stripping it all away from me.

It was feral pearl I wanted. A feral pearl I must become, a wildly beautiful, useful jewel, intentionally straddling the worlds from here on out- a woman with one foot in the human league and the other rooted deep, deep down in earth’s core. I couldn’t be a compliant pearl or a farmed one, not a pale, dainty pearl but a shimmering, strong one, not a lucky pearl but a magical one. No longer a daughter but a Mother of Pearl, my nacre layer composed of my soul’s destiny which was becoming more visible by the day.

So now if you see me out, with my full string of pearls around my neck, know that it is a call on the tame tethers of life to keep me from becoming too feral, so feral that I can’t relate to humans anymore. If I am going to be wild, at least make me free. A feral pearl please, full of contradictions.

Mary Morgaine Squire
4/10/24
a few days after a solar eclipse

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~Who has read the novella The Pearl by John Steinbeck? It is one of my favorite stories for illustrating the paradox of being human.

~Hey hey hey- if you are a local (meaning near Asheville, North Carolina) and are interested in getting your hands in the earth in a community setting, Soul Gardens has a multifarious spring garden immersion program that may be right up your alley!

~ I find many gems in Acres of Ancestry’s African Diasporic Gunny Sack of Wisdom.
An excerpt: Two things worry me about the future of humanity: the tendency to think hierarchically, and the tendency to place ourselves higher on the hierarchy than others.
-Octavia Butler

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~Love Letters to our Plant Allies~

Apple
Malus spp.
Rosacaea

Apple Blossoms

Dear Apple,

Hi old friend, it’s about time I proclaimed my love for you in written form while I look out the window at your pretty pink blossoms and drink your juice from last year’s harvest. This all brings me into closer communion with you, and I give thanks. 

When someone asks me, “What’s your favorite fruit?” I answer without hesitation, “Apple!” Not because you taste better than the ephemeral strawberry or bring such juicy pleasure as a cherry or a peach, but because you are so consistently generous and versatile and show up for me year round. 

I eat you whole off the tree. I eat you chopped and sauced, in pie, in cake, made into butter, dried in chunks or as leather. I drink your juice and hard cider and add your vinegar to my salad. I infuse your blossoms into a flower essence and fruit into heart elixirs and breathe wonderment at the changing beauty of your tree all year round. 

A plein air artist capturing our apple trees this time of year

You are so there for me and for countless others living in this temperate northern hemisphere. That mourning dove who built her nest on the flat part of your wide, round branch; that Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker who drills into your trunk; the chickadee family eating insects on your twigs; the screech owl living in your cavity; our children running excitedly under your bent arms, gathering up fruit; the pruned wood collected for carving utensils; those honeybees drinking your early spring nectar; the local wildlife feeding off of your fallen fruit; and let me not forget the codling moth caterpillar who gives your apple the worm! Why is it we do not sing your praises in more hymn and verse? You are beyond generous in every way, dear Apple.

Sapsuckers are fond of our apple tree trunks!

We’ve made quotes about you: “Anyone can count the seeds in an apple, but no one can count the apples in a seed.” “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would fall to pieces, I would still plant an apple tree today.” We’ve told many a folktale with you in it- the jealous, evil queen in Snow White tried to poison her with an apple; Norse goddess Idun is the keeper of your fruit which grants eternal youth; the Isle of Avalon is shrouded in the magic of apple orchards…We sing songs about you like “Applejack” and “The Apple of My Eye” and my favorite, “The Johnny Appleseed Song.”

We wassail your trees with your cider, a ritualistic affair. And what about you being accused as the Biblical forbidden fruit? How did that happen, when apple trees don’t grow so well in middle eastern climes and there’s no mention in the scriptures what fruit that actually was? The bottom line is —you are powerful, and powerful things are both applauded and cursed. It is true you an be either sour or sweet. Unfortunately, your latin name of Malus (meaning bad, evil) has still stuck from this story of you being the one to bring to earth the knowledge of good and evil. (As if knowledge and awareness is mal? Let us re-write this story.)

Apple’s wild ancestor, Crabapple

From you, Grandmother Crabapple, folks have cultivated over 7,000 varieties of fruit (Malus domestica) and made you into a common food worldwide, beloved by young and old alike. A few decades ago, Hart grafted heirloom types like Original Stamen, Stamen, Baldwin, Pippin, Golden Russet and Seek No Further onto wild ancestor stock and from these trees we have community apple juice pressings when the season is abundant. But in recent years, it has become harder and harder to grow your apples and store them. They don’t yield or preserve like they used to. Earth is under duress and those of us living close to the land can sense it with each year’s harvest. 

But still, you give. Even medicinally you give. The acid of apples helps with digestion and you alkalize our blood. An infusion of your bark can heal skin troubles and eye soreness. When my youngest was born at home, I had a rough time of it to say the least. I couldn’t keep anything down but then Hart offered me a cup of your warmed cider with a sprinkle of cinnamon— it was what brought me back to this world. It felt like your juice saved me— so welcoming and delicious and healing. Thank you.

And how about this, Apple- in your every center lies a five-pointed star! Why aren’t people talking about that more? Why do I only hear about it sometimes in a Waldorf kindergarten story? The holy pentagram, the shape that when followed by joining all lines anywhere within, goes on and on infinitely, a forever tapestry of stars. Oh Apple, holy of holies, let us not waste you or take you for granted or misunderstand the wisdom you bring to earth. Bless you, and to your health.

Love,
Mary Plantwalker

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~Whoever you are, you are welcome here.