The world, my dear, is dust to rain over and over and again. It is as true as it is sad that relief cannot be had unless some travail happens first. How can we quench unless we thirst?
Those times you go without a trace of raindrops on your upturned face give way to petrichor—they must as finally rain comes down to dust. Bountiful years follow the drought. It is the way the world’s planned out.
Grandparents tell their younger kin that drought is the result of sin or hurricanes our penance for those misdeeds the gods abhor. But this is all mistaken lore dispelled by whiffs of petrichor.
The prompt words for today were trace, kin, bountiful and petrichor ( the pleasant, distinctive smell frequently accompanying the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather in certain regions.)
I’m withdrawing from the argument. I have no more opinions. I abstain from giving voice to what I think to my few minions. Thoughts fly swift and easy lately on the internet. They are so filled with hate. How much more rancorous could they get? Our fearful hateful leader might hem and haw and hem, but the problem with such enemies is, they turn us into them!
My grass is fresh and verdant. Fresh flowers bloom every day. I’ll watch them from my hammock and put politics away. From the troubles of the world, I need a short vacation. My back yard is so lovely, and nature an education to stop and rest and notice all the pleasures of this life. We need to take in all of it, not just the pain and strife.
I contemplate the garden, suspended in my nest. Morrie jumps up to join me—an uninvited guest. Suspended in my private world, I find no rancor there. Just mariposas fluttering, suspended in the air above the tabachine blossoms—a sort of meditation better for my blood pressure than any medication.
I fall asleep and doze for hours. Awakening from my nap, I try to rise and gently spill the small dog from my lap. It’s feeding time for animals. I go to find the cats. They swarm around my ankles, both for sustenance and pats. It’s when I find the hummingbird they’ve left me like a treasure that I’m reminded that all nature is a blend of pain and pleasure.
The prompt words today were abstain, verdant and swift. Here are the links:
Palm trees, hibiscus, bamboo and pistachio tree. Remove them from this scene and what would you have? Trees are both the life and the decorations of our world. They soften harsh edges as well as some of the ugliness of our world. They give us breath, shade and shelter, food and some of the sweetness of life. They provide homes for birds and other animals and a foundation for our westward expansion.
But most of all, for me, they give a place for my eyes to rest upon that assures me that whatever ills men may promulgate upon other men, that nature remains constant. It is not that it does not change, but within the larger cycle, all is constant, as it is in our human cycle. What we see as good and evil take their turns in ascendancy, but still, we return at some part of this cycle to the norm. The success of our lives has to do with how hard we work to maintain the norm in our own lives, in spite of what is happening in the larger cycles.
This is what I think of when I look at trees. For fourteen years, I lived surrounded by Redwood Trees. They were there before I was born and will hopefully be there after I die. Taller and older than us, if they had a consciousness, they could see the larger picture. Our world is a living thing that regards us as a symbiotic partner or a bothersome pest. It is up to us which we become.