Annual Honesty

Of perspectives, choices and rediscovering enchantment

Lunaria | (n)
A species of biannual flowering plant belonging to the cabbage and mustard family “Brassicaceae”. It bears violet flowers in Spring and Summer, followed by showy green to light brown, translucent, disc-shaped seedpods. When a seedpod is ripe and dry, a valve on each of its sides readily falls off, and its seeds fall off the central membrane, which has a silvery sheen and, though frail-looking, it can persist on a plant throughout the Winter. Also known as Moonwort and Annual Honesty.

The first time I encountered a Lunaria in her Autumnal dress I thought of fairies. It was years ago, back when I was still working my high-end job in central London and my mind was only beginning to be filled with dreamy, glittery visions of a future inspired by the pictures of whimsical cottagecore life populating my “The Life I want” Pinterest board. That day, I was walking along one of Hampshire’s crystalline chalk rivers, a stream of wishful thoughts running placidly through my own head. My senses were distractedly taking in my surroundings—slender trees entwined with trailing ivy, a line of gingerbread cottages with blazing vines of Virginia Creeper framing the front doors, most of them painted in a calm shade of dusty sage green, the profile of their thatched roofs dark against the flat backdrop of an overcast sky. The path slithered across a dense carpet of moss and ferns, and the occasional sprinkles of cheerfully pink wild cyclamens reminded me of the flutes in an orchestra — their airy voices soaring and diving playfully, seemingly trilling a melody of their own as they weave their colors within the harmonious evenness of all other instruments. Then, all of a sudden, a whisp of translucent wings quivered gracefully in the breeze — an almost inaudible whisper rising as they stirred. In that moment, I would have sworn they were fairies (one must know that my vision is splendidly blurred without glasses, so I frequently happen to float through life as if the world had been painted by Monet, and also I do believe in fairies). Elated, I took it as a sign, a positive one.

A closer look revealed a more mundane, but no less enchanting truth. Also known as Moonwort due to the otherworldly glow of its seedpods, there is something undeniably celestial about this plant. However, I prefer its more traditional folklore name — Annual Honesty. I like to think she was bestowed this telltale name because of the way she behaves. As Summer ripens into Autumn, the Lunaria sheds all that’s green and lush about her and, with great poise, she dries off entirely, keeping only her flat leaf-shaped seedpods as ornament. At first sight, admittedly, she doesn’t look particularly remarkable. However, day after day, the seedpods, initially brown and thick, begin to reveal a subtle inner glow. Then, when the time is right, she blossoms for the second time: like the coarse valves of an oyster, the outer layers of each pod peel back, exposing the gleaming pearl hidden inside — an evanescent soul, paper-thin and silky. Like dainty scales of moonlight.

To me, the name hides a metaphor. As the season shifts and she enters a new phase of her life, Annual Honesty draws all her energy inward as if to explore her relationship with herself. She looks inside, consulting her heart, accepting the arrival of Autumn and the truth of her changing circumstances with compassion and, as the name suggests, honesty — change is inevitable, change is an opportunity. So she transforms, slowly. She chooses to remain true to herself by consciusly allowing herself to unfold into the next iteration, so that she can thrive in the present. She quietly peels the old skin off, petal after petal, eventually revealing to the world (and to herself) her bare soul — vulnerable, luminous, authentic.

The name Annual Honestly reminds me of this process. One that feels so raw and so real in my life right now. Over the past couple of years change has been a constant, though it has taken many shapes and forms — approaching the end of my 20s, becoming a mother for the first and then (soon) for the second time while simultaneously trying to create from scratch the professional life I desire, moving back to my homeland and (re)learning to co-exist with my Italian family, exploring the day to day through the lens of my hormonal imbalance…Within two-three years, my sense of self has been redefined more intensely than ever before, and with it my life too. With every tide and every season I have explored new depths and discovered new shades. At times it has felt like being forcibly shaken out of my own skin, while in other cases evolving has been surprisingly natural and comfortable.

A little while ago, my mother came back from a walk carrying back a bunch of dry Annual Honesty. I didn’t expect it to grow here in Tuscany too — admittedly, I knew nothing of it, not even what its name was in either of my two languages. But, although I instantly recognized it, something about it felt off. It was somehow different from the enchanted plant I had come across all those years ago — it was lacking its fairy sheen, the seedpods looked dull and murky. Adjusting to a new home, re-entering my country as a jobless pregnant woman, navigating the relational whirlpools of finding my place in the family as both a daughter and a mother, as well as navigating the many unknowns of finally pursuing my creative dreams has been challenging — lately, I have found myself wondering if I have made the right choices. So in that moment, the distance between my mother’s gift and the glimmering plant of my sugar-glazed memory felt even sharper. Like all those years ago, I took it as a sign again — a bad one this time. As I placed them in a vase by the window trying not to look ungrateful, my stomach sank underground filled with guilt, regret, and disenchantment.

For weeks I would look at them, hoping they would magically turn into sheets of glowing silk, almost as if with that my life would also start feeling beautiful and blissful. A sign that would prove I had made the right choices. For weeks I witnessed them remaining stubbornly unchanged, as dull and opaque as the first day they were gifted to me. One day, seized by frustration, I took the vase and put it on top of the fridge, away from my eye-level. I don’t remember exactly when it happened —all I know is that, days later, I took the vase down, and, sitting on the steps leading to the garden, I instinctively began peeling the seedpods. One by one, the brown skins came off revealing with delightful ease their glowing core. And that’s when it struck me, that is the moment when I realized I had not been trying. I had not been giving this life a chance to bring me the beauty, bliss, and magic I yearned for when I chose it. I had not given myself the chance to find and feel that beauty, that bliss, and that magic, even when it had been standing right there in front of me all along.

As I write, I can see my vase of Annual Honesty, now gleaming in its ethereal beauty. Yet, they are the very same branches my mother brought back that day. Intrinsically, nothing about them has changed — though now clear to see, their luminous inner soul was always there, long before I figured out I could free it. All I needed was to see through. All I needed was to believe in their potential. All I needed was perspective. All I needed was a little faith. Most of all, what I needed was the willingness to do something. The willingness to make yet another choice — the choice to turn those branches into something I would enjoy looking at. To turn them into a positive omen. And with that, to actively make this life a life I cherish and take delight in. So, really, what has changed here is not my vase of Annual Honesty. It’s me. Once again. And the layers I peeled off the seedpods that day on the stairs were my own.

Life to this day isn’t perfect — it rarely looks like the dreamy, glittery visions that floated through my mind that day by the river, years ago. Yet, I am closer to those visions than I have ever been. Every day offers me opportunities to notice something that brings me delight, to do something that brings me closer to fulfilling my creative dreams, and to learn something that makes me more comfortable in my new role as a mother. Every day, I am learning to check in with myself about where I am and where I want to be. I am cultivating my ability to take imperfect and inspired steps towards my visions, but also to appreciate the present, alchemizing the potential for magic that hides behind the most ordinary moments. I am getting to know myself better, I am practising viewing and reviewing my life with authenticity and compassion as the consequence of my choices. Rediscovering the enchanting side of my own life in the making is also a choice. And this week I learned that a journey towards enchantment begins with honesty, whether annual or not.

I hope that reading this post inspired you trust that, with a little change of perspective, beyond the dull and the murky, unexpected glimmers of delight await.

With love,

Julia

If enjoyed what you read and know someone who would love it too, please consider telling them about —of rosemary and time.