Souls VIII

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How we long for what cannot be.




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Perhaps that is what makes us human.




A part of it, at any rate.





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Mad gardening this weekend. Moving plants around like we were rearranging furniture. Bought lots of new stuff, which we haven't done for ages and ages. But the bug has bitten us and hard.

We've been gardening these beds for almost fifteen years. Learning, slowly by slowly, what works and what doesn't, learning how not to fight the hopeless fights and how to make what wants to happen happen in a way we'd like.

You can't swim upstream if you are a gardener.

The earth will have its way with you.



The best you can hope for is to shade things. Nudge them. Encourage, discourage, hint and tilt and bargain.




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If you had spent the last three days with my woman the way that I have done, you would sell your soul and the earth and everyone in it for another five minutes with her, I swear to God.


You would burn down cities.


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I love my fragile life. I love the way we spin like children in those carnival tea cups, screaming and dizzy and begging for it to stop and begging for it to never end. I love the fierceness of the blue sky and the gurgle of water and the hard little packages of birds as they oar through the void of the air and the muscular glide of the fishes in the sea and the silent maneuverings of earthworms and moles and voles in the darkness of the loam.

Did you know that you have ten times as many bacteria cells in your body as human ones? Did you know that you are a cloud of beings, a universe, only a tiny fraction of which you'd recognize as yourself if you met them?

You are a multitude, a menagerie, a god-damn riddle wrapped in an enigma, a work of art.


Go on with your bad self.



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Namaste, you forest of wild creatures.



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