“The love of flowering, in all its phases, is a miracle I feel honored to behold. I can’t hold back or mince words on this subject, for it drives a power almost beyond comprehension. What ever it is that captures you, and embraces you in generosity, is a trajectory to be followed. A kind word, an attempt to reach you, a sign that anyone notices what you may be going through, is enough. I get alerts, in dreams, as well as in waking reality, but the line is blurred, signaling to me, off piste, that I must pay attention to my meal tickets, to soul survival. Don’t ignore the small. We are all under a huge amount of pressure. Life does not roll on, in random waves of incomprehension. Things are actually trying to make sense of us, as we are trying to make sense, of them. It’s like a thicket, of unending confusion, until, and as if, we are capable of taking up the rational position, of digging deeper into what matters. We matter, our sensory obligations to what attracts us matters, and all the thin threads of inspiration that graze our days, should be gathered, as if they mattered. The old woman who sits at the loom, weaving, and examining each thread, matters. No one celebrates a finished cloth, by counting likes, views or new links to a higher level of celebrity. It’s the integrity of the weave, that will stand up to adversity, that matters. I want a coat of dark wool. Whose sheep will give that, in this day and age? My hands go deeper into the agriculture I know. Because, I know. We all do. But increasing, we turn to to claim a piece of what is commonly know as authoritative. We strip the lower leaves of a mildewed plant, to support the bloom, despite the corruption of a failed situation. She and I unloaded a yard and a half of pine bark mulch, in the hot sun, without much fanfare. She was anxious to quit in time to meet her father for a birthday dinner, and later, to celebrate. a timber frame raising. These are real things, done in real time, that have taken decades to achieve. These are the heroes in my sphere. We continued to clip, and shape, and sweep with corn husk brooms, bringing form to a garden that could not have happened without a resolute group of participants, hell bent on finding what could be amazing, born of a mess of untamable weeds.”
