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Rosalind Heywood – The Infinite Hive

In the middle 1950s I was walking through Eaton Square and stopped to look at a forsythia bush whose buds were beginning to burst. As I stared at it, tears of awe and ecstasy rolled down my cheeks. The beauty, the glory of that burgeoning golden life were almost too great to be borne.

Last spring I again happened to walk across the Square when the forsythia was breaking into bud. This time all I saw was - yellow forsythia.

Try as I would, the vision would not come back. So now I can only describe it from the outside. When the glass is dark one does not know how to clear it.

This incident brought home to me once more how hard it must be for people who have never experienced even minor changes of consciousness, or trivial ESP, much less mystical apprehensions, to realize that ordinary language is about as good a tool to describe them as a kitchen knife to dissect a cell.

I doubt if even the greatest poet could convey the effect of those little forsythia buds to a person who had never felt anything like it. 'It's impossible to say just what I mean,' said Mr Prufrock.