A Serving of Fruit

A word (again) about Timing. 

“What are you doing?” (they mean work-wise)

((What am I not* doing))

What is the evidence of the Fruits of my Life?

Perhaps I am a waste

or merely a waist, waiting to expand or contract

I suppose I should have evidence to show you, like a newly baked pie to present to you on a platter (I was holding it behind my back the whole time! Couldn't you tell?)

Evidence?

Perhaps not yet. But soon. The breath of life is in me

I am the noose that holds me back—I release myself from my own constraints

The cry is voiced, but not yet filling the room--Not even filling my lungs

I am on a path now, unchaperoned

A little unearthed, but not dislodged

It’s action in non action.

It's taking the reins by laying them down

It’s striking your opponent by sheathing your sword

  

“Beware for I am fearless and therefore powerful,” says the author of Frankenstein.

 

I am a bit of un-molded clay, moldering beneath the earth

But, soon….

I move forward by making tiny “still” movements

In the quiet moments between moments I am inspired

Like a spire of a church I am the lightning rod open to passing invisible charges

My body charged and ready to ground into reality

I am a hare AND a tortoise. Quickly,

Slow at first

 ((I end up getting the help I need by giving a helping hand first.))

Advice:

Be who you Are: without Shame, Apology or Reservation

Speak the vocal chords that are in you—ring your own neck just enough to release the music

You are a pied piper,  a wandering bard

In truth, a one-man band

A Jesus of Nazareth, a prophet to the people in your land. 
Do not jip them of their divine right—your gifts. Did you think they were for you?

Late or Soon?> who’s to tell. The telling is in the waiting.

In the being here.... Not then, but now.

Without fear or doubt or impossibility. 

Action without reaction. 

Belief without passivity.

Void, empty, but filled to the brim, 

pouring vast quantities~

((Hint: We gain our greatest portion by serving and dishing out what is within us.))

The Daily Planet

I look about me and I sense the poverty of my being. Like a well source has dried up years ago, or up and left altogether.

How can I live, how can I breathe without the manna of life?

“Life! Transition, the energizing spirit.” If it’s not to be found at home, where is it to be found?
 

My feet are the tentacles, reaching out, trying to absorb the nutrients and vitality of the earth, but the succor doesn’t come.

 It’s not Home.

My homeland lies elsewhere. I will try to revive a room, recreate it in the image of my soul’s workshop. But it’s like building a Treehouse in a landfill. It’s not somewhere I want to root in deep.

I am a Transplant. They talk of Wanderlust like they know something about it. But those who know about it, don’t talk about it. You see the word scrolled in barely legible cursive on t-shirts in boutiques and at Marshall’s, but are those with a Free Spirit really in there?

What the term actually refers to is a homesickness. A simple Homelessness with heartache.

I feel the ground below me, and while there is life, there is also a subtle kind of death streaming right under that. There is grass, but it is emotionally barren underneath. There are trees, but they draw their strength from an underground bog. The undergrowth is an outgrowth of an ingrown decay. It is an apology for Nature. “The earth laughs in flowers” is one of my least favorite quotes. First of all, Emerson said far more meaningful things. Second, sometimes the chuckle never comes. Sometimes it is a stifled sneeze or an irreverent yawn.

The earth groans, moans, and spits out flowers out of duty anymore, not out of joy, let alone mirth. Weeds are killed by RoundUp and Ace Hardware chemical cocktails:  plants die and live by man’s command, not of their own inner impulses. Inner impulses are stomped down. The creative drive of a “weed” is a nuisance at best, and “enemy” at worst. It is only ever man that feels threatened by a Dandelion.  “The only difference between a weed and a flower is a judgement” ? Nature lets all be, just as it is. Whatever variety, it lets what nature prescribes come to fruition. 

Men halt the bud by prying it open with dirty hands. My friend, you can’t force a flower to bloom. If you do, you kill it. When the Time is Right the inner forces will release of their own accord: Not a moment before. Not a moment after.

We try to preserve the beauty of the flower far past its expiration date, which is unnatural.

You cannot halt what is inherently cyclical.

But Earth’s mourners are in cheerful denial. They dress her up, and go back to their “real work”, leaving the body of the world moldering in the dark.