Happy endings are a delusion —
Those who wish for them are mental infants.
The best you can hope for is a sense of closure:
Some satisfying bookend to the dying tome;
A swift and merciful pivot to the new work at hand.
But even closure comes so infrequently — so rarely —
That when it does the resolution is a revelation,
And not, I must note, without its own attending pains.
My heart was shred to pieces when I was pushed from the garden,
Or more truthfully, the core of my delusions was demolished.
Seven years I nested in a cocoon of my own weaving.
A full year followed in silent mourning.
In secret moments the lash of anger convulsed my body.
In darkness I shed tears,
Languishing the fate of my creation.
What would become of my children:
The plants, the flowers, the trees, the vines?
I grew them, I lamented.
I nurtured them. I was the tenderer.
They were my legacy.
What of the birds and squirrels,
The butterflies, lizards, and bees?
The friendly possum, the bumbling armadillo,
The haunting owl sheltered in the branches?
In hindsight, I was a magician of reckless arrogance;
A Jupiter ego drunk on newborn power,
Unchecked by the grace of Saturnian wisdom,
Wholly unacquainted with holiness.
With fits and fumbles in those fledgling days
I fulfilled the role of eager apprentice;
Mistaking myself as master,
Intoxicated by my newfound powers.
In the imprint of Gaia
The spirits of the trees and plants went forth:
They spread their tendrils and their branches —
I shaped their destinies with tender pruning.
That, at least, was my illusion.
Dark dreams would sometimes visit me:
Visions of the garden cut down, dismembered,
The trees mutilated and removed;
The animals dispersed and destroyed.
On my return, I was dismayed to find the nightmares manifest:
A pile of stumps, discarded,
Plants usurped by man-sized weeds;
Limbs ripped from their bodies like severed arteries.
The latent anger lashed inside me:
The fiery rage that shrieks for revenge,
Unquenched by the waters of retribution.
In defiance, I began the work of restoration:
A compulsion at first, then a humble reckoning.
The man’s destruction, I had to concede, was complete —
I could not reverse the damage.
I could only offer an apology to the land for my reckless ways:
A plea for mercy on behalf of myself and my kin,
Aware of the violence borne of my own ignorance,
Planted by the seeds of my foolish arrogance.
In the act of repentance, I broke from the old path:
The former route no longer served me.
Wisdom and temperance had become my teachers.
Many were lost in the destruction; yet others survived.
The fate of those left behind is not mine to determine;
They remain my pride and joy.
A person from the old life saw me —
Called me by a name I no longer know.
Go tell the tribe, old stranger,
Tell them what you’ve seen.
They will tsk and tut, as is their nature.
It no longer matters to me.
Their vision is compromised,
Their illusions betray them.
They think themselves saviors;
They hasten their own demise.
Once, many years ago, they inquired of my future plans
And my mind had no ready answer.
“Something larger”, I finally said, from the quiet of my soul.
They were unmoved.
When love later detonated — as it so often does — at an unexpected intersection
I saw myself entwined in a distant canyon;
The pure light of eros beaming from heaven.
“With the power inside of me I could change the world”, I said,
My body rising toward the darkened sky.
“But I want more.”
Mercury delivered a belated warning,
And I was pulled to the ground like a helpless child.
My power is great — I now know it — but my capacity has necessary limits.
I am, like every being, a tiny drop, a momentary vapor.
Sharpened by the edge of humility,
My limits are now my joy.
The head of the tree is buried in the earth:
Chop off its legs and new ones appear.
“No more cuts,” Wisdom tells me plainly —
“Those days are behind you.”
“Do not force your will; do not violate the land with your ignorance.”
Even a shovel entering the ground is an act of violence:
An arrogant impulse of the deluded mind that believes it knows best —
Yet knows nothing at all.
How joyous it is in this moment to live as a shadow —
A mist drifting with the gentle breath of grace.
A daily half-step in darkness;
An occasional glimpse into the realm beyond mere sight.
The staff is planted,
The call has been raised,
The far-off journey beckons.
We see the distant castles, their joyous peaks.
How we get from this moment to that one is a mystery.
How we meet in our weaving and wandering is yet to be written.
Our ancestors of yore whisper in dreams,
The angels and mentors guide us with visions.
“Go forth swiftly and secretly”, they say.
“Plant your seeds gently throughout the land.”
To be continued.