Today, I posted a prose piece about wildflowers, grounding/earthing, negative ions,
and their impact on our bodies, minds, souls. Yes, these can all improve our health. But what if Nature adds on to the impact of everything God gives us? What if there is a multiplier effect?
I think it’s an interesting hypothesis. Anyone want to prove it?
Deeply immersed
in the morning
rhythm of the woods,
I didn’t need
the sun to greet me.
Still, when Sol
popped his head out
from behind the rain clouds,
I was grateful
and gave him
a “Good Morning!” wave.
As he wearily made his way
to his king size empty bed
alone
it was a song better left unsaid,
unsung.
He heavily breathing
from sinus infection
and midwinter cold
and allergies
and dust,
from cleaning up messes
that were not his own,
yet were,
taking the green pill,
medicine that would cure
his cough
or at least let him sleep,
(although he must be woken up later to take the medicine that would keep his heart beating.)
And he just watched a movie
about lunch
that reminded him of a film
about dinner,
and why has never anyone made one
about breakfast,
the most important meal of the day,
because after breakfast no one can write.
Don’t wait up.
And the movies and the poems that spawn them,
he wonders if he could write such,
that perhaps some obscure
Art House actor and actress could make them come to life
and seem more real
and less pretentious than they are.
Then, in the midst of his rambling,
the door opens
and she who was once
the author and finisher
of his life and salvation
interrupts
and he doesn’t know if it’s about
old men’s diapers
or the ice cream mess
he had to clean up from the floor
because she,
unaware,
left it there.
Will the House burn down someday?
Is he the only one who can see?
And the art house films
remind him of his daughter,
cosmopolitan
(though not in a cosmo girl type of way,)
but living in the Queen City
or the Big Apple,
and now he is out
in rural deplorable land
and he wonders if his lack of connection
to the arts,
to music,
and to Passion
is robbing him?
Or is it feeding his soul
with something much deeper,
much more mature,
something that Nature can bring
only to those who are immersed
deep
within her.
He shuts his eyes
and picks his toenails
and slowly moves
back
and
forth,
wondering if he will fall
while reaching for
the box of Kleenex
rescued from the back
of a non-functioning SUV,
at first covered with mouse feces,
but then underneath functional enough
to capture
the dregs of his draining brain
as he pushes
and pushes
and pushes
so hard that
his ears pop.
She wants more,
cracks open the door,
slowly shutting it
as he droans on,
drones on
and on
and when he asks
what she needs
“Nothing.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.
I was wondering who
you were talking to.”
And doesn’t that really ask
the penultimate question?
“Who am I talking to?
What am I talking to?
What am I talking to who about?”
Does it matter?
Why should I care?
As I slip into
the abyss
of Nyquil-induced slumber,
I can only hope my alarm
eventually wakes me up.
And then,
that I won’t need melatonin
to go back to sleep
again.
Is he pretentious,
talented,
whimsical,
or just exhausted
and silly?
At last,
he is writing,
worried about what others think.
He hasn’t done that
in a long time.
He hasn’t cared.
Ill I’ll sit,
doing nothing.
A beautiful sunny,
mid-winter’s day
beckons,
but I,
sinuses backed up,
mouth agape,
feel no urge
to venture out.
Snot pushing up
into my brain
seems to plug
every
and any
thoughts I might have.
Hazy-headed,
I attempt to breathe,
but instead
mearly gasp.
There should be more
to write about,
to think about,
to do,
but this giant screen
covers and prevents
any outlet
of creativity.
My coughing
hurts my back,
makes me want to crawl
back into bed,
snuggle under
warm covers,
where I can’t breate,
and will only think
of how I should be doing something,
anything.
But what?
A half a century ago
my character yelled:
“I’m responsible!”
on stage.
I’m not certain that,
back then,
I knew what the phrase meant:
“I’m responsible!”
Now, decades past,
I understand that,
at my core,
I’m responsible.
It’s silly to blame
anyone else
for anything bad
in my life,
because it’s all good,
as long as
I think it is
and want it to be.
I’m responsilbe
for that.
You blame me,
us,
them,
for stealing your dreams.
“How Dare You!”
you shout,
face twisted, contorted
into emotion.
Sadly, no one told you,
no one guided you,
to know,
no one can steal your dreams.
Just you,
and only you,
can let your dreams,
hopes,
desires,
visions,
slip away.
You can blame others
all you want,
as loud as you want,
but the truth is this:
You’ve lost your dreams?
That’s on you.
I’m called tree hugger,
greener,
environmentalist,
eco-warrior.
I call myself
those names, too.
But when I see
red-faced screamers
demanding that
governments and nations
make accords,
do something,
force compliance,
I back away.
Giving government
more power
is not where I’ll waste
my waste-fighting
eco-warrior
energies.
Haven’t we learned
from Muir,
Thoreau,
Leopold,
and others?
They DID,
and they wrote
about what they DID.
Movements started
with the power of
DOING,
with the power
of words.
They introduced others
to the beauty
and wonder
and peace,
and joy
found in God’s Creations,
in Mother Nature.
They partnered
with God,
with Nature,
to help folks,
the common man and woman,
feel love for
and wonder at
all God’s creations.
Because how will I
partner with,
love,
and protect
a creation
I’ve never experienced?
This was prompted by an essay on individual responsibility in environmentalism.
As a people-pleaser
who never wanted to
hurt anyone,
it stuns
and pains
and saddens me
to know how badly
I’ve injured
and pained
and scared
those I cared about
the most.