I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
Subscribe and Save up to 55%
LEAF DIAMANT underwent a successful name change.
Healing has an infinite variety of forms. The only way to evaluate any single method is as a positive catalyst of change. Scientists “objectively” measure healing; empiricists “can tell” if it works. But the person being healed either feels better or doesn’t. The quintessence of healing is being well.
Autumn comes, summer ends . . . so quickly. The fire is momentarily resurrected in dazzling fall days, brilliant changing falling leaves. I compete with birds and squirrels for the bounty of fruit, nuts, berries. Too delicate for scorching summer, good-eating greens form carpets everywhere. This season, between fire and ice, is a delightful respite.
As I sit here, in the morning sun, I am aware of how much I want to say. And words seem as distant as the long-awaited rain.
Early dawn. She sleeps. I caress her body with my eyes. I slide through her hair, gently kiss her closed eyelids. I taste her in my mouth and smell our sleepy warmth. I am amazed by her beauty, by the strength and kindness that is her face. I also see pettiness and hurt. My heart embraces her. I move closer, she murmurs and pushes against me. I fall asleep.
Contrary to plans made exactly one year ago, I awoke this morning, twenty-eight years old, and I still was not enlightened. Or, in the vocabulary of a friend who says “We’re all enlightened, we just haven’t realized it yet,” I awoke still unrealized. I awoke still thinking that there are things I need to do, to be, in this lifetime. I still live with some residual dissatisfaction. I remember having a garden talk with a wise neighbor who says: “Life is filled with dissatisfaction. It’s that dissatisfaction, that frustration, that keeps us changing.”
I only belive that Spring is here when I’m able to gather and eat the delicious and nutritious wild greens that abound in our area. I’ve just eaten a salad that included two of my favorite plants.
I AM RAGE. I am a storm, dark, heavy, omnipotent. I am unmitigated violence. I am fury, exploding, blinding lightning, roaring thunder, howling wind. I surge like the sea, uncontrollable in my rage.
The wood stove generates waves of warmth as early winter winds furiously squirm under doors, and wiggle through cracks in windows and walls. Gentle music plays on the late night radio. The blue fire of intensity burns within me. My mind is busy thinking, feeling, creating. My being reverberates with awareness. I take an idea, mold it into the shape that fits the keyhole of my consciousness, and I am changed in the transition of a new opening.
Standing on the roof of a building high above Chapel Hill, I watch the sun passionately set. The sky is dazzling. The end of day heralded by pastels of tangerine, salmon, crimson, lavender, azure. Voluptuous swells of purple cumulus clouds glide across the lower sky while, high above, sleek streams of feathery cirrus race into the darkened east. I am awed.
Sitting by a dancing fire on this cold rainy Sunday, I feel lonely. Lil gently rubs the back of my neck. Robert and Phil strum guitars and sing ballads of loss, loneliness, and change. I sip dark red wine and am warmed by flames, alcohol, and love. My heart hurts, although I love and am loved. I do not know what I hurt about, but I do prefer this sadness to the numbness that preceded it. Sadness sobs in my stomach, chest, throat, mouth, eyes. I am heart sick. I feel myself longing for something or someone. I don’t know how to convert this sadness into something else. I realize as I complete this thought that I do not want to change my sadness; I would rather feel it.
I am becoming myself. Between becoming and being myself lay a miasma of ancient feelings, values, and perceptions. These are the unknown forces to which I respond by looking everywhere else for the solution, an end to my fears and hunger. These “forces” will be unknown until I believe that re-discovering and experiencing them will feel better than being insidiously controlled by them.
I would like to comment on the article that you wrote in the issue of “Birth and Death,” that, to me, was the most timely subject at this point in my life. Being a widow, and separated from my children by hundreds of miles, I find that my new life has brought on new reconditioning.