Fragrant Water Lilies: Ways of Seeing

Walking through summer, traveling the winding trail between breath of spring and hint of autumn, heat and light building across the miles, we are frequently drawn to water's edge—where, if conditions are just right, fragrant water lilies bloom in the shallows. Today, I'm remembering three summer days, three lakes, three curving shorelines, and how fragrant water lilies guided us to new ways of seeing....

We are approaching Ghost Lake in northern New Jersey's Jenny Jump Forest, our cobbled path lined with glacial boulders and time-sculpted outcroppings—guardians of the area's trove of legend and lore, no doubt. We have the lake to ourselves this morning. In the months since losing Ben and in the midst of the pandemic, we've been walking almost every day, and many of our steps are taken in silence, with equal measure of introspection and observation. In truth, at times, it is almost painful to see— each thing, all things, evoking visceral sorrow and aloneness. And so, when we happen upon fragrant water lilies, seeing is literal and in the moment: There are fragrant water lilies, just so: a swath of verdant, plate-like leaves and cup-shaped blooms resting at water level, floating as if arranged by unseen hand—the pearl-white petals and golden stamens welcoming sunshine, beckoning pollinators, unmoored from earthly trouble, untethered from terrestrial care. Perhaps this is the way in troubled times: seeing, not as a panacea for raw grief and isolation, but as a balm for healing—the simplicity of joy, the immediacy of connection.  

There are other days, and different waters: on a trail encircling Birchwood Lake in northern New Jersey, we pause, silent and seeing, as a great egret wades through a lovely, tangled mass of fragrant water lilies. There is beauty and integrity in the moment—a sense of wholeness and completeness, away from the world, yet somehow merged with the wider world. And in time, we find a stone bench on a tranquil shoreline and rest, looking across Laurel Lake in south-central Pennsylvania. Here, the way of seeing is reflection and discernment: high, cotton-puff clouds and cerulean sky mirrored in the water, an expanse of fragrant water lilies blooming at level and repeated in the lake—clouds and sky, lilies and light, in the moment and returning, always and again. 

To see: from the Old English sēon, and perhaps from the long-ago Latin sequi—to follow. Beyond definition and etymology, it follows that as we see, we learn to trust in the unseen—the wilderness beyond our purview, a story beneath the knowable surface. Once more, we think of fragrant water lilies, how they transcend the depths of darkness and loss, growing through water to meet the light for a brief time of blooming before returning to an inscrutable place. In Ways of Seeing, English art critic and essayist John Berger observes, the relationship between what we see and what we know is never settled. Certainly, there is fluidity to our various ways of seeing: often, we see what we want to see and, on occasion, what we need to see. Across time, we see in the moment, through grief, with joy, with reflection, discernment, integrity—and ultimately, with trust and faith. We walk on, passing by a lake where, if conditions are just right, fragrant water lilies grow in the shallows.  — B.

Fragrant Water Lilies

floating

on the surface

in suspended moment,

pearlescent petals opening—

fragrance

and light—

each blossom sharing reflection

before the vanishing

to unseen realm

beneath.

— B.

Three days—it’s all the time allotted for the fragrant water lily to flower. Those who seek its ephemeral beauty are lucky to catch it blooming during this short window of opportunity. On the flower’s first day, its petals will not fully open, and it is the only day the flower can be pollinated. On the second and third day, the flower produces its own pollen and opens its petals fully. Nearby insects, attracted by the lily’s sweet smell, get coated in its pollen and carry it away with them. On the fourth day, the water lily succumbs to its fate—the stem curls, eventually pulling the whole plant underwater where it will go to seed. The water then carries the seeds away to another location where they might begin again, embedding in the mud, developing a rhizome anchor and long stem, slowly climbing upwards towards the air and light. 

The water lily’s life cycle has captivated human beings since ancient times. Nearly every culture where water lilies are found associates them with the spiritual or supernatural. The plant’s family name Nymphaeaceae recalls Greek mythological water nymphs, and the species name odorata tells you to pay attention to its fragrance. The aroma is said to enhance all the senses, stimulating imagination and enlightenment. — D.

Art lovers will have a hard time reflecting on the fragrant water lily without thinking about French Impressionist artist Claude Monet. Monet spent his life trying to capture the light, color, shadow, and fluidity of a single moment in time. His work is typified by short, thick brushstrokes of unmixed color, offering only bare impressions of form, emphasizing the impact of light. Like many, Monet was fascinated with water lilies. He began painting them in 1899, and continued through the end of his life, ultimately resulting in over two hundred and fifty paintings. 

We can take inspiration from Monet and the water lily when we walk slowly through familiar places, paying attention to the color palette and the way the light interacts with the things around us. Take a slow walk and see the world as an Impressionist might. Choose a path through a familiar place but walk more slowly than you usually do.  Instead of focusing on objects directly in your path, pay attention to the periphery of your vision field. What feelings, sensations, and impressions can you take in without direct focus? Notice the way the light impacts the scene around you; notice the colors that stand out. What moment in time from this walk would you choose to paint over and over again? — D.

It took me time to understand my water lilies. I had planted them for the pleasure of it; I grew them without ever thinking of painting them.

— Claude Monet, 1840-1926, French Impressionist painter