Sweet one please—do not try to teach me that to touch and hold hands is the same. I accept that all living creatures are expressions and extensions of one another. This even includes those elements the majority does not attribute life to. At other end of the life spectrum, extinction, genocide, ecocide, coalesce and the cul-de-sac stops at oblivion. A fierce clarity of heart and mind is needed to confront the degrees of death.
There are many times and many places for the holding of hands, that human ritual of tender endearment and flowing warmth. Yet it should not be missed and certainly not forgotten to feel familiar with the smell of fresh earth after a spring rain, or sense throughout your toes and bones the cool slippery textures of wet fallen leaves, in the twilight-brisk of autumn.
Wondrously exciting to gaze into the beauty eyes of one trusted lover! But wondrous as well to follow the flight of a blue lotus butterfly in summer, or study the web of an orb spider, displaying the dewy jewelry of a slow arriving dawn. How in faded gray is first birth of golden issuing morning!
Not all life on this sacred planet is human. Thank Gaia for the forethought of otherness!
What an apparition to look forward to future children growing old, soulless, spiritually blind, never seeing the ripe red of an apple on branch of an apple tree; never uncovering in hoeing of a garden plot an earth worm in the pious ecstasy of fertilizing feeding. What a shattering horror to anticipate undead masses who worship more at pavement of a sprawling city than a flowing river—as if they could quench life’s thirst with a labyrinth of streets—and who feel more affinity for the polluting noise of a poisoning machine than for the quiet hum of a honey dreaming bee. What betrayal vital deep; what injustice by governance of delusion!
Look at me: One late summer evening in Bellingham, an hour or so before the start of silent night, I stood and watched a fat fuzzy moth launch its swollen body from low branches of a small yard tree. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a dragonfly swooped in and snatched the moth in mid flight. The raid was over before I recovered out of awe; I had never seen the like before. By far a cleaner death and better memory than a slick of oil on the dying cheeks and lips of coastal waters, or the fatal fiery crash of a speeding car.
Thank Gaia for the flowering antithetical of evolution; for the grasp in passion through instinct beyond only human skin; for the connection in love and partnership beyond only human hands!
If Gaia is a kind of goddess, as sister, wife or mother to some cosmic god, what of our tears and in what shape our prayers of thanksgiving?
While I place my hand in your, a living glove, I whisper, “Come! Just beyond the corner of time remains a patch of wood. There we can walk together in the scented tracks of wild deer, while we follow the intercourse of rooted rocks and the sweating sun. Sweet one—there is a memory of deep longing in my final words.”
8 October 2011