There is a cave nearby, which is the gate into Mother Earth's womb. I went there to meet her and ask for guidance in my next steps.

I've never been there before, yet when my brother told me about I knew immediately this is what I need to do. In a time of uncertainty and weakness, I find strength in being close to the earth and grounding myself. It is so simple, yet so potently powerful and healing. Just lying on the ground (when it is not muddy...). And the answers to questions just arrive.



A few steps on a path surrounded by dog roses, now balding and revealing grey branches with thorns and bright-red reships against the clear winter skies. Skeletons of a thistle, that remain upright and shapely even after its death. Smoke rising from a bonfire in a tiny patch of sacred forest (only God knows why they thing it's okay).  Fallen leaves and scraps of lichen on the ground. It is like a microcosmos of a forest. So tiny yet so full of life and mystery.





And then down a few wooden steps on the trail, with so many Smilax aspera vines decorating the forest with their beautiful heart-shaped leaves, sunlight filtering through the foliage. And the slippery slope of the cave entrance. I stop on a shelf before it and admire its crevices. It looks like a giant and dark birth-canal. Just like I've been seeing in my dreams lately. A passage between worlds. Which worlds it is unclear to me still. But the analogy is staring at me.

I disarm myself from any baggage or devices and cautiously descend into the cave. It is very muddy and slipper there. And walls of the cave are solid rock, but its bottom is in fact a syphon into which the entire valley empties its precipitation and into which water disappears. Will I disappear in there as well, in this soft, mushy, cold, dark mud?

I hold on to the walls of the cave. I try to float over the mud. I am too scared to go deep into the cave as I don't have any flashlight with me, and I can't trust the earth under me to hold my weight. Within this position, legs and arms spread to hold on to the solid, cold and moist walls, I close my eyes. I breathe in the musty smell of cold, dark stone. I am a bulb inside the cold earth. I am waiting for the exactly-right conditions to emerge from this birth canal. To climb through the hard chunks of dirt and into the light. But for now, I am only here and now. I am inside the earth. I AM the earth. Cold, dark, steady, passive, incapable of moving. But fully capable of absorbing everything that is poured onto me or buried within me. Water, water, water comes inside me and the emotions disappear into the reassuring heaviness of earth.

Clusters of wild hyacinths (Hyacinthus orientalis) greeted us when arriving at the foothill of Mt. Meron. And they kept accompanying us as we climbed up towards to peak (Elevation over 1,200m). This has easily became a favourite hiking trail, which is a satisfyingly challenging two hour round trip (not too long and not too short), and always full of flora and fauna delights. It's a unique mountain because it has many rare plants that don't grow anywhere else in Israel, for example wild peonies. Other plants maybe grow elsewhere but still attract floral pilgrimages that I compare to the Japanese tradition of flower viewing (I already told you about the Sternbergia).

This time I came especially for the oriental hyacinth, the forefather of the cultivated grape hyacinths. I already wrote a little bit about wild hyacinths on this blog, but this is the first time I'm seeing them and smelling them in person. And I was not prepared for their smell at all. Cultivated hyacinths have a sharp green, heady, sweet perfume. Similar scent was observed at the bottom of the mountain - with the hyacinths having the typical green-sharp fragrance, a little sweet and white-wine-like, with forest-floor nuances and more than a sulphuric hint of green onion or chives. On the other hand, the hyacinths on the top of the mountain trail had a surprisingly tropical aroma, bringing to mind lilies and even suntan lotion (!).


Several molecules were found responsible for hyacinth's character: 3,7 dimethyl-1,3(E),5(E)-octatriene-7-ol (AKA beta ocimene, which has a tropical, green, woody, vegetal scent) and (E)-cinnamic alcohol (which gives it the spicy, floral-green, powdery, balsamic and slightly fermented character), and ethyl 2-methoxybenzoate (AKA benzoic acid or ethyl ortho-anisate, which gives it the fruity-floral aroma, also present in grapes). It must be a different ratios of these molecules that created the difference in the aroma profiles in hyacinths in different location.

Just a few steps from the first cluster of hyacinths on the trail, a meadow of Syrian Veronicas (Veronica syriaca) ignites the imagination, visually looking like a dream perfume pairing. They look a little like violets, with a striking line that separates their blue-purple top from the bottom white colouring. I didn't notice any special smell about them, because I was too preoccupied with their looks and taking pictures of them. They are so delicate and yet outstanding. It's interesting how on the foothill of this mountain, two plants of such different lore grow next to each other: Veronica is named after St. Veronica, who tended to Jesus on the cross giving him a handkerchief to wipe his brow; and Hyacinthus - a pretty Greek lad whose preference of the Sun God Apolo as a lover over the West Wind God  Zephyrus brought upon his untimely death. To avoid sending his body to Hades, the Underwold God, Apolo turned his blood into this lovely and fragrant blue flower.


Cubist looking ancient olive tree at the beginning of the trail.



And yet a few steps from there - a wild plum, called Bear's Plum (Prunus ursina), which smells very much like ume (Japanese sour plum), and will ripen sometime during the summer. There was a surprising number of wild plum trees dotting the mountain, which is simply an endless source of inspiration.


A gorgeous trail of wild red anemones and blue hyacinths higher up the mountain.