Things continue to move at break neck speed and yet my neck is not breaking. That was supposed to be sort of funny. Moto plugging away and we are now preparing for the great merge. This is middle schoolers at their best: they have no idea that they are embarking on something HUGE and they are being the catalyst for what could be a revolution in the Haven area. Oh and they have no clue, they just do their thing and live their lives and God moves baby, giddy up!
In very short chunks I've been reading a really good book on freedom, honesty and creativity. So in these short chunks I am able to drift into a place where my mind works best and my heart goes to unique places that I hope I never come back from, but I inevitably do. I wanted to toss out something I read last night that I thought was really cool and had me drifting off to that great place. Maybe it'll take you somewhere to, maybe it won't, but it's still a good read.
"We had stood for a half hour in the desert, letting the sun have its time. And I wondered at the metaphor as it spilled beauty against the brown. As the sun went higher, the color faded and the earth gave way to nothingness, as though the color were a trick, as if the sun were teaching us there is no such thing as beauty, only what it chooses to shine a certain light upon that stimulates a certain chemical in our brains, as though the two were old lovers, teasing each other, reliving some forgotten memory. But if they were teasing each other, they have certainly stopped. What we have here in all this dead dirt is the stuff of life without life's spark. All of us are made from this stuff, this dirt. Everything in life is just this magical soil, fairy dust, if you will. Plant a seed in the soil and that seed will find the magic around it to make some sprig of wood that, with time from the fairy dust around it, will make a tree, and with the aid of water and more dirt and a hundred years, a tree the height of a skyscraper and the width of a house. All of it from dirt. Grass grows the same way, carrots, potatoes, onions, apples on trees, barley for beer. Rocks are dirt fired in the furnace of the earth's belly, steel is processed rocks, diamonds are rocks forged in the compression of earth's weight, and people, you and I, are dirt lit with, depending on what you believe, the magic seed of the aliens or the accidental nothingness of Darwin's dreams, or the warm breath of God, the spark of life, giving an embryo a heartbeat, the magical glint that brings the dirt alive, sets in its DNA a coded direction and a mysterious motion that becomes greater than a tree in complexity, able to question its own being, able to to guess at its creation, able to love and to hate, to live inspired, then to die, to return to dirt, to the vast abyss of nothing that is a desert in midday, a sea of brown, only beautiful when the sun tricks the eye, only beautiful in the playful metaphor of light.
In all our technology, we have lost touch with the earth, our heaters and air conditioners robbing us of the drama of seasons, our cars keeping our feet from pacing the land, our concrete and our shoes and our carpet delivering us from the feel of unprocessed earth. WE LIVE ON TOP OF THE CREATED WORLD, I think to myself, NOT IN IT."
What a piece huh? Maybe that's why I still love Michigan, it gives us all four seasons, sometimes within a week! There is something about getting cold, warming up, or even playing in the dirt that feels right. Gosh, I remember playing in the rain, mud, dirt, sunshine, water or whatever the day gave us. I absolutely wanted it no other way than the way it was at that moment. Now, I want it to be warmer, sunnier, less windy, colder, or whatever it ISN'T AT THE MOMENT, because it doesn't fit the way I have become. I'm trying, I guess, to get back to the dirt or at least back to the child like ways that seem to make life a little more natural.
I wanna get dirty (easy filth pot)
Wallace D.
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