Aloha Dear Ones,
As I awake to real time , I see that I've not posted anything for weeks. I've not been asleep all that time, but perhaps, more than anything, I've been preoccupied with tending my little garden and having concerns with the little finches and sparrows (I don't really give a shit about the sparrows-the little interlopers) that have been driving into the windows of my kitchen/living room. It wouldn't be a problem if the windows were open, but theses babies are 4'x4' fixed jobs and let's face it, birds aren't made for headbutts , especially when they're butting plate glass. I try to concentrate on the garden.
You know, it was a very natural thing for me to start the seed, till the earth, and plant the garden. It was as natural a thing to do as sneeze, or take a nap- in this instance . Historically I've been the one to do the gross manual labor of growing things; building the planters, hauling the manure, watering when and where I'm told. This was my virgin exposure to the sensuality of the soil, to starting the seed and seeing it make it's way through the compost and reach for the sunlight. And it's crazy, you know, I've been talking to the little things, baby talk and encouraging words, to the Thai basil (which I transplanted and is not doing as well as its cousins I put in planters in the back corner flower garden-the garden that is vibrant with lilies and fever-few, iris and sweet pea, honeysuckle and a lone, acrobatic rhododendron). Perhaps I should try speaking Thai to it as best I can, the street Thai I learned in the service in 1968; saying "sway mock, puying, by layo, bylayo"( which roughly translate to ; "very pretty girl, go , go ". Maybe that very thought is killing it- language cancer, translated by an idiot. Who knows? I have a gopher problem as well, but unless you have a proven solution, never mind.
But , of course, we all have a much bigger problem than that, don't we? We have the earth, vomiting into the ocean, the digested residue of it's past history and we were the ones who tickled its throat. Of course, in many ways , our personal guilt can only be gauged as if we were questioned about slavery- with the exception that most of us drive cars and make use of petro- chemicals in more forms that we're even aware of- let's face it- it's in damn near everything. So is it us to blame, BP, the endless and senseless bowels of government, or the inherent hunger for money that grows in our world wide corporate monkey, the gleam for gold that turns to green, that ends in the black brown syrup of oil that powers our cars and fouls our waters?
We have become numb at this point, to the devastation. It has become a political issue, which makes it a long, drawn out affair and won't do a thing for the critters and fisher folk and the soothing , primal, age old sound of waves, washing up on sands that will now be stained for years and years to come.
Now is the time to plant our gardens and write the congressmen and women, perhaps take to the streets again; drive less, and damn it, take care to tend our garden!
The title of this blog came from one of my Kathy's 1st grade students, on overhearing one of his father's albums playing in his workshop. It seemed appropriate somehow.
Much Love,
Buzz
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