“It was just beginning to rain, on a night much like tonight. The overcast, a humus of humid air, the duskiness a plain dressing on such delight, made of human ingenuity & industry. Some of the young are filled with mission; some are not. I’m not inclined to judge, but merely observe the brightest sparks of light, as they flit through my universe. Ah, deluge, you come in so many forms, hitting my world from your hidden places, soaking both earth and sky with pounding intensity, like a Central Park mugger. No one quite knows, when or where you will strike next. But the show must go on, be it Broadway or backyard pizza oven. All the prep, the sliced peppers, organic doughs and mozzarella. The chalkboard messaging: “Pizza Day is Today, in the Garden”, written in a child’s artistic scrawl. A chilled wine, a plate of goat cheese and blueberries, random chairs pulled into range of the warmth, the fire, the impending conversations. Plans go as planned, though plans also do not go as planned. I feel the weight of the week like a yoke, and oxen chewing its cud. The odd sensation of how suffering can co-exist within a world of pleasure, and congeniality. We all take turns, tasting life’s bitter fruit, and life’s flamboyant joys. Some will never come back from it. Some will thrive. In the gardens of our most cherished dreams, we remain suspended. Or fall, into a slumber, reminiscent of Dorothy, her poppies, and her Oz. I’ve been raking, and digging, and pulling the roots of things that don’t belong. I feel qualified to know now, and would only wish that my final stand, as the world makes false replication of everything its God, would be this: to cut the cord. We can be free again. Our attempts to steal back reality, must succeed. To my friends who’ve built domes on wild rivers, or grown flowers to cut, or fermented grapes, or watched bears destroy their apple harvest. I am with you. I load my truck with tools each day, just to prove to myself, that these things still matter. We are like a nomad, vigilante tribe, moving where we must, to repair what can still be repaired. We collect rocks, and roses, old books and used tile. Our wood piles full of crickets, are a late summer meditation. Any among us who made bad calculations, or met with unforeseen karmic catastrophe, will soon be tended. Healed, if the hand of plenty is keen to dole out indulgences. Is life really this arbitrary? No, we say, absolutely not. We still have sweaters to knit, herbs to infuse, stories to tell and bonfires to surround. The quietest among us may yet be ready to speak. We’ll see. Perhaps if we can stop the chatter, what is left will be something we all have been waiting for, for as long as we can remember.”
