In the middle of a Texas pasture

 

Life teems.

From my perspective

(a single breath in the winds

of the Universe)

what is, was; and what will be,

is now.

But that is illusion,

a vagary of the glimpse I have

of these moments, of this Now

in eternity.

Life teems, and thrusts-

asserting itself into generations

of which it is unaware

but, nonetheless, bidden.

Driven by upward forces

toward the sun,

pushed across barren soils

toward rivers and seas,

called by the future

toward a presence

in the harmonic symphony

that is always being written.

I am

in the midst of it

Now.

I am the teeming desires

of my ancestors to see

what they would not see,

to touch what would be

beyond their grasp,

and to feel the wind, the warmth,

the wonder of it all,

which they had known.

I am their thrusting, lusting,

desiring need for

presence in the panorama

of continuing Creation.

I am the accumulated starstuff

of dying suns, ocean tides, volcanic eruptions,

thunder, lightning, simmering summers,

melting glaciers, and rivered canyons.

I am part of the meandering tapestry

of the Earth’s green response

to planetary cataclysms; and

I am part of the hungry, crawling,

expanding and replicating,

movement of consciousness through time.

I am their resurrection.

I am their Life.

I am.

Water

 

Born in the crush of gases and dust as stars are born, water is created in the compressed heat of a solar system’s infancy. What is here now, was here then. We bathe in the historical artifact of New Creation; we slake our thirsts with that in which pre-cellular life began to coalesce.

We are children of the sun, and brothers and sisters of the oceans. Water is the essence of our physical eternality.

The river becomes the cloud becomes the rain becomes the corn becomes the cow becomes the milk, and we gather around dishes of ice cream. The wave washing ashore this day in Burma is a messenger of the pterodactyls which flew over it 150 million years ago, and is a prophet to living beings of tomorrow for which we have no name. We breathe the ocean, feel the seas pulse in our veins, and are immersed in the wetness of all time.

“Water” by Mary Oliver

What is the vitality and necessity of clean water?

Ask the man who is ill, and who is lifting his lips to the cup.

Ask the forest.

from Parabola, Winter 2007

Ants, A.D.D., a Chisel, and a Palette

“It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do.” ~Henry David Thoreau

It is almost never about what we are seeing; it is about how we are seeing it. It is always some aspect of our egos which colors that which has stimulated our imaginations.

I cannot pass an ant mound; why does almost no one ever want to squat with me and watch, too? I gave waiting up long ago, and I am no longer disappointed that nobody wants to watch the ants, or the 10,000 wasp maggots in the compost heap chewing through yesterday’s garbage. I used to think my desire to sit and watch diversions like those was an affliction, an ADDled ability to concentrate. That self perception of myself as never-endingly immature and unable to focus was reinforced a hundred times by teachers, K through 12, from whom I heard the refrains, “Dave, stop talking,” or “David, stop drawing pictures and listen,” or “Mr. Weber, would you please share with the class what it is that you find so interesting outside?” And the answer would always have to be a moving tree limb, or a bird, or the clouds, so I would inevitably answer, “Nothing, sorry.”

Had I been able to concentrate while geometry was being taught or while titration levels (whatever those are!) were being established in chemistry class, I might have moved on with some of those socio-economically identical classmates who became doctors, builders, and bankers. Instead, I became a guy who, at the age of 50, was still watching tree limbs and wasp maggots, and feeling guilty about it.

Within the context of another psychological crisis, I was blessed with a counselor who, when I whined to her about being different and disappointed in being so, had the insight to answer, “So what?”

“If you were punished by a teacher for being left-handed as a child”, she asked, “would you curse your genetics or tell the teacher to screw himself?” (She knew how to appeal to me!)

“I would hope I would fight back,” I answered.

“There’s your answer. ADD wasn’t a choice you made, it was the gift you were given.”

And thus the lights went on for me. And have gotten brighter ever since. The block of marble that hung in front of my eyes and impeded my view of everything, was what needed carving. The blobs of black and white paints, put on my palette at an early age by others, and which I was convinced were the true colors with which the world needed to be painted by me, even though I didn’t want to and had no talent for doing so, needed to be spilled and replaced with the cacophony of colors pouring in abundance through my mind at any given moment.

I learned how to see, not what to see. How was under my control. What was under the control of others. And, screw them!!!

I had been watching the ants, the maggots, the tree limbs, and the clouds (I began to understand after that day of liberation) because they were here first- and I had always known, without having the language to say it, that there was something to learn from them! Every single one of those “diversions” are now part of what I am writing here, and talking about with others all the time. And they make a difference in the lives of people I’m with, and in myself, in ways they never could if I tried to talk about the process of titration, instead.

If y’knowwhatI’msayin here, then I invite you to do some carving and painting of your own. It is your gift to be able to do that. The ants have been waiting for you to listen..

As humans we are born of the Earth, nourished by the Earth, healed by the Earth. The natural world tells us: I will feed you, I will clothe you, I will shelter you, I will heal you. Only do not so devour me or use me that you destroy my capacity to mediate the divine and the human. For I offer you a communion with the divine. I offer you gifts that you can exchange with each other.  I offer you flowers whereby you may express your reverence for the divine and your love for each other.

~Thomas Berry, “Evening Thoughts”, EarthLight Library