In a stately garden in Toorak there grows a Magnolia. Huddled in my cape, ears ensconced in chocolate brown rabbit fur ear muffs, fingers clad in red gloves that never quite fit their length, I walk past her. As I push the gloves down at the crevice between each finger, trying to match their length with that of my digits, I look up. And there she is. A blooming magnolia framed by a wrought iron fence.
Magnolias bloom at their fullest in the bitterest hyperborean weeks of the long Melbourne winter. On naked branches they exhibit their folds and hues so affably it’s hard to understand how they do it given that their branches look so sparse, gnarled and stark.
My external environment of late, is pretty sparse, gnarled and stark at times starting with my 4:30am alarm. As I get up, my body aches with cold not to mention my mind. How do Magnolias do it? You really have to admire them for more than their beauty.