Mind Your Garden

Be sure to mind your garden, for it is the source of life. There are trees that bear fruit to feed you, and plants that grow beautiful flowers that bring you joy. Each plant is different, and you must research and observe it to understand how to care for it. You must understand the composition of the plants in the garden to ensure that one tree doesn’t block the sun from another, or that its roots don't become invasive and hoard all of the water. You must understand the soil - is it too acidic? If so, you have to replace it with new soil. Strong, healthy roots are necessary for any plant to thrive.

Don’t ignore the weeds; it is a constant practice to remove them thoughtfully and thoroughly. Don’t use chemicals; they seem efficient and thorough, but they harm more than you know, and everything is in a delicate balance. Most of all, spend time in your garden. You learn the most when you observe, and the more time you spend, the more you appreciate the beauty of what it’s become. It’s always had this potential, it just needed some care and attention. It just needed you to understand it.

An Abstract Tapestry

I've been thinking a lot about consciousness recently, and what it means to be alive. The moments where I have the most clarity and peace are the moments that I feel connected to something bigger; moments where I think life might have meaning. As a realist, I question this, of course. Humans want clarity. Humans want peace. And wouldn’t it be convenient if those feelings could be found in a belief – belief that there is more to the world than what we see, belief that there is a deeper meaning and purpose to all of it, that our lives aren’t meaningless. As I mulled this over in my head at 2am, I had a thought that summarized it all: when you connect to your own spirituality, life goes from being a chaotic shit-show to a beautiful tapestry; everything has a place and purpose, and all of it together might just make sense.

If everything means something, suddenly you start paying attention. Maybe you didn’t pay attention before, but now you notice the trees, and the birds and the buildings. You notice the way the wind makes small ripples and waves across the bay. You notice how the paint is chipped slightly on the white railing that you’re leaning on, to reveal an older coat of light green paint. You notice that if you dig your nail into that little spot of missing paint, you can chip the white paint away a little more, or even chip the green paint away to reveal the naked metal of the railing. Then you notice that you feel a little guilty about chipping the paint off, but it also made you feel good in the moment. As you lean against the railing, looking out across the bay, your hands tucked in front of you, you can pick at the paint without anyone knowing. With that thought, you rip another little piece of white paint off and watch it fall into the bay below. It almost disappears during its descent, but you manage to keep an eye on it as it lightly touches the top of a small wind-whipped wave. You start to notice things like this. You notice that writing is the only thing that keeps you sane somehow. So you write. You write about the little things that you notice.

Love is not Attachment

The river flows to the beach

But she traps it with a dam
Her own pool within reach
Will soon become grand

But the still water seeps
To a spring underground
And looks for the beach
In the dark, til it's found