Fine Wine
Catch the foxes for us, the little foxes that spoil the vineyards, for our vines have tender grapes.--Song of Solomon 2:15
There is a scene in the movie Sideways where a man and a woman are seated on a porch at night, and the man likes the woman very much but he is afraid to tell her, and the woman likes the man very much, but she might be afraid that perhaps he doesn't like her (it is harder to tell what she is thinking, and that could be part of the reason the man is afraid too). They are both connoisseurs of wine, and the man particularly likes pinot, and as they sip on a fine vintage (the name of which escapes me now, and it may or may not actually be pinot), the woman leans forward and asks the man why he likes pinot so much anyway; what makes it so different, for him, from other wines? So he tells her (his voice tender, almost shy) about how the pinot grapes are not easily grown, how they are thin-skinned, delicate, "temperamental," requiring constant care and attention. They only grow in certain pockets of the world, because of requiring precise weather conditions. They aren't "survivors," he says, not like cabernet which will grow just about anywhere; ah, but when they do survive, when the wine is made, what a brilliant, "ancient flavor"! And nothing (you can see he means this), nothing can compare to it.
The man looks at his glass more than the woman as he speaks, but her eyes never leave his face, and you know that she knows that on some level he is talking about himself, even if he doesn't know it. But I think he is also talking about the woman he will love, because deep inside himself, he doesn't want just anyone, and especially he doesn't want someone who doesn't need him to help her grow.
And I know, though neither of them do, that he is really talking about me, and that I also am like the pinot grapes, full of promise, but easily broken and bruised, if I am not handled with exquisite gentleness and care; a loving regard, not just for what I am, but for what I will be someday.
The finest wine is appreciated most by the one who waits.
There is a scene in the movie Sideways where a man and a woman are seated on a porch at night, and the man likes the woman very much but he is afraid to tell her, and the woman likes the man very much, but she might be afraid that perhaps he doesn't like her (it is harder to tell what she is thinking, and that could be part of the reason the man is afraid too). They are both connoisseurs of wine, and the man particularly likes pinot, and as they sip on a fine vintage (the name of which escapes me now, and it may or may not actually be pinot), the woman leans forward and asks the man why he likes pinot so much anyway; what makes it so different, for him, from other wines? So he tells her (his voice tender, almost shy) about how the pinot grapes are not easily grown, how they are thin-skinned, delicate, "temperamental," requiring constant care and attention. They only grow in certain pockets of the world, because of requiring precise weather conditions. They aren't "survivors," he says, not like cabernet which will grow just about anywhere; ah, but when they do survive, when the wine is made, what a brilliant, "ancient flavor"! And nothing (you can see he means this), nothing can compare to it.
The man looks at his glass more than the woman as he speaks, but her eyes never leave his face, and you know that she knows that on some level he is talking about himself, even if he doesn't know it. But I think he is also talking about the woman he will love, because deep inside himself, he doesn't want just anyone, and especially he doesn't want someone who doesn't need him to help her grow.
And I know, though neither of them do, that he is really talking about me, and that I also am like the pinot grapes, full of promise, but easily broken and bruised, if I am not handled with exquisite gentleness and care; a loving regard, not just for what I am, but for what I will be someday.
The finest wine is appreciated most by the one who waits.
posted by grackyfrogg @ 8:10 AM
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