Love is a real-life kind of thing. It's messy and difficult and involved and embarrassing and indescribably wonderful. It goes back to our roots, our trueness, our real selves, before there was any wrong or hurt in the world. It is the spiritual power of life--from organelles to ecosystems, from birth until death, we move by its currents. It is like many things in our conscious human world: not what we imagine, not the ideal, but better--natural, rough-edged, real-life. It's like finding an umbrella that was lost.
Rain falls on the just and the unjust. The best-laid sidewalks and landscaped beds and sculptures and picnic tables of men lie open-faced to the same deluge that untouched rocks and trees and woodland burrows know so well. A human-thing mystery. No man is not subject to the elements, even those who remain inside. The whole reason we have buildings is because of weather.
Anyone want to go puddle-splashing?
01 May 2009
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1 comment:
You know I do.
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