The seed starts in the dark. A season in the dark. The weight of every sunless spot of soil, made of things that made you. Laying quiet with its gravity drawing through you, passing particles from ground to seed, and from seed away. Bits and particles rearrange their sense until they read like new head lines and tell a different story.
What makes the soil release its separate virtues, I don't know . I never studied that far. Water kindly carries molecules to bring sleeping cells to motion like a neighbor might take you to the doctors. Sun warms rain and turf in turn. All the tiny buds get chubby. Things get louder in the sunlight. You can leave that blanket now.
Eat breakfast, drink coffee. The birds aren't always here but they are now. Any small song is that light that warms the dark. The notes you hear that start your heart. You can steer your heart it where it goes because to a certain extent there is no one to steer but you. Your hand on the tiller, the paddle, the wheel. No matter how long or short the course . You will see the trip, at least as if , for the first time. The seed knows where the light is . There is only one direction. That small green shoot curls up towards the day.
The strength of grip of a love enfolds you. The source is rumor. Never seen, testified in fancy. Drawn from dream sketches. There is no sworn up reserve, no proven source. Just the finding of traces, tracks and an open course. The shoot grows through the weakest path, the strength that draws it needs no more than it needs. Just a motion and a molecule at a time. There is a gravity and attraction, bonding force as the soft green breaks into sunlight. No matter how faint, the feeding is there.
Motion is subtle and in a very small place, but the movement is there. Once upon a time, there was the motion, that went in the direction, where now roots would not be needed. Where the curve of growth became the steps of travel. To drop the roots and drift and not to starve and die. To see and hear and feel and taste but have no tether to anchor and feed you. To find your sun given sustenance without the anchor of that network of tiny holding fibers.
There was a game produced when I was young. I only saw it on TV. A shallow frame, like a picture, long as your arm, narrow as your hand, loaded with a spring on one end. Inside this frame were discs, about the size of a quarter. The spring pressed a bar that pressed this mass of discs in the picture frame. If you pulled one out poorly the whole thing would snap and explode. Even then I saw my life. Every step hurts a bit . Every motion bears on every object , which channels every motion. The course you lay may or may not be available.
When I did white water the river was the constant power. The rocks in the river channel, the force. The task is to ride the power between the standing rocks and strainers. The river doesn't stop here and the sound will tell you so. Sometimes you have to carry. I think our hearts are born with love, at least most of us. The god shaped hole they say exists, the name we give the force of gravity between us. Sometimes the river carries you too fast. I'd like to warm the folks who warmed me.
At a microscopic level , cell walls will keep some stuff out and let some stuff in . Sometimes thats good , sometimes not. That wall keeps the inside one thing and the outside another . We keep on building these walls , letting some stuff in and keeping other stuff out. At LeMans I touched these walls that the Romans built. I don't know who did the actual building. Labor relations were pretty sketchy back then. But I bet when they were done, and while they were working they had songs. We have music we call ancient. Did the songs out last the walls? Will mine ?
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