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.
