Longing & Desire

The things I want, are the same, and have changed little since I can remember even having desires. The context and the execution has changed, but not the root of the desire. And I wonder if we sometimes keep ourselves from embarking upon those hazy eyed desires, for fear of knowing the likelihood that the magical will vanish once we are upon it.

The funny thing about this human condition, and how we begin beneath the earth and steadily rise to reach the sun, as so many things, dandelions, pear trees, magnolias, shrubs, weeds, oaks, vineyard lines. We all have out varied forms. And from the moment we are born, we begin to scurry away from our roots, beneath the soil of earth's sleep, scurrying to reach up above, to where the sun and company of others illuminate our limbs and eyes. Our clandestined paradise. Our forms twist and stretch, and become almost entirely new entities. We become such magnificent things by the light of the sun and warmth of those by whose company and wisdom we are nurtured. And at some point, we are cut down at our knees, picked, ripe, ready or not. And our forms are in no sight upon the ground. They have been taken by hands of strangers. Consumed, admired, annihilated, or mistaken. Our stalks and stems are no longer, and those circumstantial vestiges are recycled back into the cycle by mouths or smiles or compost piles. The soil is barren, flat, and without us above.

And just below what has been reaped, the quiet root remains. Still and steady as it came. And we can remember where we came from and why, and see clear again. And so we begin again.