Musing In The Garden

Life, it seems, is a constant pulling oneself up. At a certain point one is either strong or dead. Of course, there is plenty of in between. There is always a place between this and that, whatever those may be. Some may have it easy till one day trouble comes along and they have no idea how to manage. But I couldn't know for sure, being that I am only me. Some never figure out that they poses the strength to lift themselves. Yes, I know, there are broken minds but many may be looking for a reason.

The path of least resistance would be to give up.

Or perhaps it's the weight. Yes, the excess wait of cultural and religious bonds. Heavy steel chains wrought by... who? A Saguaro can stand for a time, months, years even, before anyone knows it's dead.

"Yeah, it's been dead for a time. Just now decided to fall over."

Sometimes I think our culture is dead, or at least dying. So much of everything is an abstraction. A culture full of dead things that make a lot of noise. So much so that it's easy to know they are alive. Someday we will be like machines but we wont know it.

"It all happened quite naturally really."

A kind of contrived evolution. So be it. I ride through the sun, find some shelter under a tree where the wind whispers, breath in the decay of leaves so I know I am real. That I am... indeed alive.

"How strange, these people who can smell death and know it means life. They eat bizarre things from the earth, roots and tubers. They walk with their feet." "Oh, I've heard but never seen. I hear they have no place between."

The emptiness between distractions.

Why have I chosen this path? Seeking to simplify the convoluted. Lying around smelling dead leaves. Listening for signs of life in the roar of dead things. The wind shakes the leaves and fills my eyes with light.

What if everything you heard was a lie?

Well, you'd have to pull yourself up. Be strong. Go ahead and try.

Look past... everything,

breath slow and deep,

let it in,

let it go.

Now, stand like and ancient tree beside a polluted river. Listen to the light in the leaves. The river waits for the prophecies to fulfill themselves. She has plenty of time.