Girl and Dog. Sometimes frogs.
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If one is truly comfortable with who they are, if they have become who they wanted to become, there is no room for jealousy. There is still room for sadness. The only space in which there is no room for sadness is one in which all personal understanding of meaning and discernment are surrendered to the concept or feeling of a “higher” order. This, could be the subversion of true feelings of rich sadness for a delusion, or, it could be one way to the Way. It is, a surrender of individuality and free will, which, in this thread of logic would mean that the experience of sadness is deeply personal and perhaps it is why we hold on so. And perhaps it is natural to want to be an individualized thing for a while seeing as we were born into a cohesive mass of cells. Then again, our cells are less contained than we once thought. A friend recently got in touch and said quite urgently, “I read something you need to hear, coffee tomorrow?” And when she met, the thing I needed to hear was, “rocks exchange chemicals miles under the ground.” And I felt very happy that this is what someone may urgently think to tell me. And I thought yes, the “aliveness” of rocks is the last frontier of speciesism and we are almost there.
Giant poppy down, bud making her way up to the sun.
Beanie got her mouth stung the other day at the greenhouse and yelped and ran under the truck and would not budge. Now she refuses to do her job of catching and eating bunnies at work. I guess it’s just one worker for the price of one these days. No more steal-of-a-deal, two for the price of one.
A toad in the garden is always considered deeply auspicious.
“This isn’t science, but it’s a beginning.” ~
Energy cannot be destroyed or created. It also cannot be held or imprisoned in one container. Siphoning it into and out of shapes and feelings is what is asked of us. Patterns of movement through time. Working on form as a function of time versus a function of a stationary immortal ideal. Practicing transmutation and intuition of sequencing in my myriad decay and reformation. Practicing playing, a part, beyond non-observation.
The confluence of knowledge into action is the sweet spot.
|Hannah Arendt| “The stateless person, without right to residence and without right to work, had of course constantly to transgress the law. He was liable to jail sentences without ever committing a crime. More than that, the entire hierarchy of values which pertain in civilized countries was reversed in his case. Since he was the anomaly for whom the general law did not provide, it was better for him to become an anomaly for which it did provide, that of a criminal. The best criterion by which to decide whether someone has been forced outside the pale of the law is to ask if he would benefit by committing a crime. If a small burglary is likely to improve his legal position, at least temporarily, one may be sure he has been deprived of human rights.”
Lauryn Hill is a goddess and while at first I was like, “hell ya Lauren Hill is being sampled on the radio with Drake” on second thought, drake (whose flows and beats I love love) rapping about hoes in the club over the background of Lauryn’s classy song is sort of like, eww mysogeny at its height. Shove the Queen into the background; and yet, she must have agreed to it. Deep.
Planting Beans and tending the clover pathways that are making a comeback after a winter working to feed the deer their sweet treats.
Clear edges & Blurry Surfaces: it is my opinion that there is an interesting epidemic in the social world today, of defining endings and edges, or boundaries between other, while leaving no space for an inter-membranous exchange of dialogue, cutting a rigid edge in response to conflict, discomfort or difference of opinion, while also having a blurry self-definition. Actually, hard edges of individual fortification are in response to having a blurry self-definition. I think it is a reaction entrenched in a neoliberal socially Darwinistic hyper-individualized end-stage capitalist society that has both divided and conquered, and left humans broken and hollow, feeling unsafe in a web of consumer-oriented interactions, forced to protect themselves (our selves) and become self-referential narcissistic robot people whose programming has been stripped of social recirprocity.
I’d rather live like a forager than a farmer (though I am a farmer and I so love the farmers). What I mean is, waking up with a commitment to wandering, open to finding what has migrated in the night; wild strawberry in a spruce-pine grove, staghorn sumac for tea. Understanding how to understand what I might be looking at. I would rather have less control and more skilled response. I would rather trust in the richness of the land and propagate and walk and wander and return to old places always. I would rather support and participate, finding the brilliance of unexpected combinations and trusting in the intelligence of plant beings, to grow where they want and are able. I would rather learn from their choices than learn only from mine. In a world whose co-evolved life systems have been marginalized, we must be farmers, but I would rather be a forager.
Morning ritual of the gentle vulture.
I found a new treasure poet at Prairie Lights Bookstore. I present to you, under the canopy of the unfiltered barn swallow twirls and old barn roof, Layli Long Soldier: “In ritual: nobody’s learning, true.”
Weekend plans: morel, nettle, wild onion roast over the fire, bean pole building and planting everything ever.
Wild turkey dinosaur in the mist.
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