It is inherent in writing (or other creative pursuits) to take time to cogitate. In these meditative moments lest they morph into weeks, years or months (writer’s block) one lets go of foggy suppositions and mental fascinations. Answers and awareness arrive without pushing the river if given the space. God works in a similar manner, at least within my world view. As in, if I get out of my own way and provide open space for air, light, and sweet soil God brings springtimes.
My goal with this timeline and blog is not to sell you my cranky perspective or convince you western intellectual quasi-Jungian goods I peddle are superior or more highly valued. As grandiose or selfish as you may perceive my rants this venue provides a release from roaming around in a museum of WTF non-bitterness or has-been political impotence.
There are those who in their loyalty and regularity provide a leafy fresh matting on the path to prove we are not alone in the digital mandala.
In the past, and probably concurrently, much of what plops from my keyboard onto this digital screen is out of my control. I have no grand plan or even tiny answers as to how humanity (read you and me) is going to evolve out of an increasing sticky stinky pile of crap we are sinking faster and faster into. A shit storm we make, we feed and we pass along into the now and maybe a future is building in width, depth and breath.
There are festive brighter lights on Fedbook and Twitter and in the blogosphere who I read because otherwise the human vacuum in the jungle would transport me into an ethereal serial. The heart beats some mornings quicker than needed if only to remind me how fast life passes. I am grateful and fortunate as what I did, who I was, and where I set up my tents prior to here and now provided an exceedingly fertile garden.
Today, I rest not on my morals or lorikeets. I hear the sky’s moisture pelt the metal roof with no regularity and the sliver waterfalls cascade south and north in this petite paradise I inhabit. Blue Dacnis flitter about in the thickening humidity. They flash their psychedelic blue bodies and cobalt black wings against payne’s gray greens of the jungle melting into whitish vagueness of an encompassing mist. Far from my perch emanating up from the forest’s floor one more jerk is using a chain saw to further irk the wilderness regarding humankind’s disregarding of Earth. A bouquet I cut from the garden sits next to my rattan chair is buzzed by a Long-tailed Hermit Hummingbird. The floral selection is varied to attract him/her and hint of a human female touch to my veranda above the canopy.
My choice is to grow a garden to attract birds and other wild wonders yet this endeavor is driven by genetics. Macomber women for centuries (and probably longer) have had gardens of herbs, flowers, veggies, fruit trees, and plant oddities. I suppose this enduring love ends with me?