Pearls

The pearl is the oyster's autobiography.
(Federico Fellini)

I am considering pearls because they are the birthstone of the June-born.

I’m remembering a strand of cultured pearls given to me by my grandparents, one pearl a month, then strung—then breaking somewhere between Greek islands on my twentieth birthday, spilling like cold water from my neck to lap onto the ship’s hard deck.  I gathered what I could, but lost the rest.

There seemed to be a story there for me, some moral as I came of age there in the Aegean.  As I slipped heavily as fallen pearls into almost-adulthood that summer, though most lessons were ahead still (and maybe still are). 

Not accidental that traditionally pearls are of wisdom.  Their origins are lowly, and tell a tale themselves.  From irritation, serene luster; from coarseness, perfect grace.

Characteristically, my Gemini nature almost prefers oysters to pearls—or anyway loves them as well, for their gray grit and texture and the life they live and give.  I wrote about this in my poem Belons, how 

Beyond everything, it is the oysters
that my heart is hungry for—

Wrote also about hands shucking oysters in New Orleans; a riff on oysters, rum, and Revelations.

So I agree with Fellini about the pearl being the oyster’s autobiography.  The two are apparent opposites, but inextricable.

It’s agreeable to think of casting pearls before swine, while keeping Circe in mind.

And it’s agreeable as well to look for pearls in art (Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring) and song (The Pearlfishers’ Duet, with Andrea Bocelli and Bryn Terfel).

So for this month, my begging bowl has pearls in it—

images:  White Pearl Necklace, Tanakawho 
              Bowl of Pearls, Ai Weiwei