Nature

On Nature and Solitude

 

 

     In the beginning it was all but a campfire tale; A comforting voice for a child’s soul.

 

     I did not know the name of the fields, the trees, the flowers, but already full of amaze I observed them. Hummingbirds hovered over our simulated flowers. The wheat fields piled themselves as marching soldiers heading on to the river. My young eyes squinted over the glow of their golden armors.

 

     Amongst the harvest, I smile over to a capricious blackbird singing over a fallen fig. The early sun made the earth silver and gold. Everywhere exploded; the fields boiled with life.

 

     Dandelions fall everywhere. What do I do with all these Dandelions? They fall over my feet, over my head. My body is furred with un-wintry snow. They are full of force, profound, more elevated. They float delicately towards me divined by the wind. As I look up, my eyes; they have become dandelions as well.

 

I see horses walk gently on to a rosy water ponds. Violet; darker would it turn as they approached the longed liquid. Their gigantic mouths engulfed noisy mouthfuls of bloody waters.

 

     My face was also illuminated elsewhere. I saw men walking home, others riding burros. The sunset was a purple hue hurt by his own crystals making him bleed and bleed again. The fields, the flowers, they gleamed incandescent and soaked penetrating the luminescent hours.

 

     My high-spirited soul kept watch for the voices of the Earth; Echoes talked endlessly about heroic battles. I could see the scars carved on the mountains and barks of trees. The voices seemed saddened by their losses however proud like that of an invincible hero.

 

     Standing against the wind and rain; the earth shows her granite soil, her razor edges, fighting obstinate against herself.

 

      The road is my own. The moment is familiar yet monumental. It seemed as if at the end of every corner I would accidentally ran into colossal castles or shrines of the past. The evening could stretch eternally. Like a cloud, I was also  a stranger  everywhere I went. And like them an ever-changing man heading nowhere only expanding myself.

 

     Crickets awake in choruses whilst nightly hellions bring thunder and mist. What a relief was to see some light on yonder hills. The soaked grass would give the air its minted fragrance, but most importantly a savor of asylum.

 

     I am alone but the room is lightened. Yet from afar, the room would seem as minuscule as a firefly lost in the darkness of night. I sleep. Yet, I still sit on the table; half conscious, half dozing in dreams, I open my eyes amazed by how bright the room was. An image of myself appeared before me. For the longest time I confronted myself silently.  I stared into my eyes where I could see only nothingness. My thoughts shouted at each other. The music in the background, everything moved fast; nature faded in.

 

     Under my pulse stories of the past are concealed; the legacy of my people, which has been led to nature’s love, cleansed to embrace it, and finally humble to teach it. What do others think when they see the rainbow? Or when the sun reflects over the mountains on the snow covered peaks? I was one of those who had not to learn to love nature. Nature was a friend and a loving companion since my coming days.

 

     For only those who learn to love nature as a person, could have her as a friend and traveling companion.

 

     Gladly and unashamed I committed myself into nature’s hand. Her unphysical love surrounded me. Her curative effects over my somber life are as winter rain for the early springing flowers. Even the coldest of hearts can be softened by a colorful rosy sunset, or with the simplest of firmaments.

 

I traveled and each time I would go somewhere different; Racing horses home under heavy rain, sitting on top of Churea Peak, walking against the wind on some grassy field.  My paced youth gave me just enough time to find nature on her elaborate landscapes. Together we walked under my imagination’s fancy, over a sea of feral azaleas.

 

     I pay notice to the heartbeat of the earth, where like a cloud melancholically suspended, between heaven and earth, I longed for a corner of land to rest my head. I imagined romantic landscapes, thirsted for hidden sanctuaries between the ridges of mountains, where safeguarded I would leave my lasting impressions amongst unnamed flowers.

 

     I added verses to the walls of the chapel. The snoring bells hanged deep and I swung with them. My heart soloed over the thrill. One with my surroundings I understood what it is to be alone.

The Lines In My Hands...

The lines in my hands…

 

 

How old have you grown. How insensible are you now. Jaded…perhaps, forgotten. I stopped believing in you.  Should I let you be free like I used to, was it better then or is it better now. I should not stop, I want to let you go , I want you to be free.  I see you; clumsy, wrinkled, old, deteriorated, marked by time, yet as I let the reigns of imagination go, they too begin to soar.  I open an inward door; a heart, my nucleus, that hidden grove, my sanctuary… Look at them now moving fast, trembling, having second thoughts, never allowing a second, never forgiving the misuse, the detachment.

 

Will they forsake me now, did I exhaust all their love. I couldn’t , I would never, I need them, more than ever, as always, as I have never needed them before, the wheel has turned, the rain has come and gone, and now , as the earth begins to dry and the leaves glisten, I too can shine.  Take me with you , show me that we still can…  that it’s still alive, that there is hope , that in the end there will be light. 

 

Old wounds surface as I let these old hands loose. And with them, they bring old memories, old phantoms, and a feeling of regret; A feeling of weakness, of humanity, of truth.  And as still water runs deep, so does the blood in my hands, and so are its lines , deep, and jagged. They tell the stories of my life, of those pressing moments, of the aching heart, the mockingbird heart, the light, the desert rain, the splatters, the puddles the joy that overcame itself. I.

 

It feels new again, like the first time dancing, I stumble, I’m clumsy, but I don’t stop myself, please go on, be butterflies again, and draw the nectar out of my heart and spread in the form of words, in splatters, in sublime and ethereal pieces of myself.  This is me. I have become unclouded, I can see into my own eyes, I feel the need, I have missed you so much , where have you been, writing hands, my friends, my noblest gift you are. 

Imagination

     Somewhere in time I find myself impelled by the fancy of my pen. But in this modern world, I descend over the keys of a computer.

 

Yesterday could have been a nice day, but it wasn’t. I quickly realize how I’m not that Epic Hero of the stories I used to read. I finally realize that those are only in my head.

     It is easy is to play with people’s souls. I had some loves in my life, but I can be so distracted. It is an example not easy to follow. Yet, I won’t suit in that color again. Yet understand I am quiet happy alone; with me, by myself, next to me.  It is difficult, yes it is.

    

I have trained myself not to think, to close the faucet on my brain. Only for them to remind myself, in psychological torture how dumb my try was. I am a little piece of imagination on a small corner of other people’s nightmares.

 

In the rain I love to swim, and those who run and hide, they wish they were dead. Then again I also love the sun shining over my face. The sun, who can be my best friend, maybe even the only friend these days that seem strange and unreal to me but real to everybody else. And even though, this might sound illogic, I feel that the people who give me the most love and esteem, I give the least back.

 

 I wish I could touch on life’s favorite themes, but there is no room in this piece. Without looking outside my eyes, I can see reasons why the sky would sing and cry. I also see the people walk those streets full of mud caused by the dirtiness, bad imagination and the only enemy of my convictions: wickedness.

 

I need someone. I remember my youth, but now I find myself turning on the tiny motors of pain, which are the cause of my biggest desire. Is this an interminable voyage through the aches of my companions? The doors of humanity have been close by false beliefs in love. And so I look for reasons to change this human form into which I was born, deprived of nature’s perfection and lore.

 

What is what they see on the minds of people close and near, how much faith is there left in the world?

 

I am not the example; I don’t believe in love at first sight. Nor do I believe in the brotherhood of men. Yet now that my life is changing in every way, I do wish I had a light to shine on me with kindness and hope.

 

There was a day when I dreamed of a spiritual awakening that could save me from my poisons, yet I only fond a place to lay my soul. There you can find me still, eating my time away and dreaming of the day in which I can sleep without resting from my dreams. I hope to awake and find that the birds have not flown. Yes there are places that I remember, others I don’t, but they will be there forever, and the people that these images represent.

 

I know that my mind holds several demons that will never let me be at peace, but my life has had love and rest.  Beautiful sounds all mixed up in a huge mess that sprouts from a mind in a life like mine.

 

In the land of broken hearts and of continuous cries, love is what reigns. Every one of my friends is present. The dream of a color, the reasons of a thief, and the tears of a guitar remind me of how easy it is to judge.  How nice it is to have liberty of thought. I turn around and see the wall of problems that I have not yet decided to solve and I would say my name. Then I could hide the little love that was given to me included with this body, because I’m not willing to let it go just yet.  Nor in the center of the sun, or in the deepest abyss of the sea would you find what I seek, cause it has been hidden inside of me (and you).

 

Let me take you to a place of unreality where everything can be real to you and for me. Only there can we find each other, and only there can we talk without the necessity to write or dream. 

In these times of despondency...

 

  It was as easy as untying my shoe laces. Well, not quite untying them, more like loosing them up. My day was so much better, I had no idea how comfortable these shoes could be, they never really felt good, but how easy it was, so simple, the solution always there, yet it never crossed my mind.  I cant stop shuffling my feet in them now. Ah! so much room , so comfy. 

Where did my human spirit ended up. All these questions; When, how, who, where did all these ideas began, when did I began to feel like this, to feel this pressure, this weight, this fire which now rests tenderly, a fire that awaits in the form of embers. A soft glow, a secret embrace, a penetrating sensation of sublimity, of the ethereal. 

A universal despondency in all. In the care for one self; in the pursue of knowledge, of happiness, of understanding.  A soft cry, a silent bellow oppressed  in consolation by uniformity, but submissiveness against the righteousness of society and the cultural correctiveness. Lets not let anybody say it, the truth. We eye ball them, we scrutinize, we seek and destroy. Sorry haters , but its true.  There is no open road , there is no way of disappearing  pretending that the masses know best. 

As with me and my shoes, the solutions has to be there; at our reach. A simple one, a modest and true way of changing.  A cliché: look at ourselves firsts, start with the self, look in the mirror? I believe that reflections on the self are and will always be there. Yet even with them as an ongoing, truly rewarding,  and an inspirational necessity, it would not matter as much. A true surrender? In so many words...  Have I become as jaded, as unforgiving?  But didn't I stood at the summit of Carrizo Peak, didn't I walked amongst the banks of the Danube, and have I not cried amongst the sentinels of the desert, eating  their fruits, prickling my hands staining my lips red with their juice? Haven't I smiled gently at a stranger's glance.  Silently, and far, far away, a slumbering heart pulsates. I soft but steady beat, gentle, a tiny ripple... a change of tides; can you hear it now?

Yet  as the tree falls lonesome in the forest, and St. Francis of  Assisi writes another verse about his brothers and sisters of nature, I too should add verses to the walls. With these newly comfortable shoes, I embark with a renewed hope, with a memory, with the certainty of beauty, of love, and a remembrance  of a new hope. What a simple thing.

  

Youth

 

Stepping into the water cave is as stepping into an ocean of calmness and peace. All is silent except for the noise of water, flowing in whispers, taking you to a small pond full of bright colored fish. There you find me.  Lying down, with my arm under the water, trying to catch the fish as they swim by.

The oil lamps would be the next feature to catch your attention. With their inconspicuous smell, softened by the mist, some are fading, announcing they will soon stifle into the night. Consequently my favorite spot, right to the sitting rock, next to the pond, sometimes, when the coil is calm, one can witness a rapturous procession of fires glimmering in the dewy walls.  Bedazzled, I predicted upon which lamp would be the first to give in under a small inverted waterfall of smoke.

In the center, I see a small but steady fire embracing a huge log with the smallest of flames. There I see my brother and grandfather placing stones over the fire. Shirtless and barefoot, I stand facing the fire, waiting for the commencement of our ceremony.

I was north. I would always take north corner for myself. This means I enter the tent last. It also means, I would be a rock carrier. When everybody was already inside on their own corner, I would introduce the bright rocks. There is no other light than that of the luminous rocks.  I close the entrance behind me and sit like a young Siddhartha. There, gazing into the redness, hear the sound of water scalding instantly against the rocks. Then closing my eyes I wait for the wave of heat to clash upon my face.

I lower my head to the point I rest it against the moistened ground; there is a lot cooler and breathable. I envision the most exiting and romantic landscape where laid in a silent bower, a shepherd rests his head against a tree. With leafs landing upon his head exhaling sleepy clouds of sleepy smoke, he glances at the mountains with their topaz hue, under the dreamiest of lights.  This shepherd is my grandfather’s opiate voice dozing me as I press my face against the cool ground.

We traveled. And each time, we would end up in different places. Racing our horses home under a heavy rain, sitting on top of Churea Peak, walking slowly against the wind on some grassy field. My grandfather’s paced words gave me just enough time to find him on his elaborated landscapes. Together we walked under my imagination’s fancy, over a sea of feral azaleas.

He was the keeper of truths. Life’s deepest and most important truths came to me from this man. He taught me about love and the hearts of men. He taught me how to be a light beater and a keeper of the good. How noble was his selfless love towards nature.

Heat rises, as we approach the end of the ceremony. The room darkens under a fiery embrace. The last scoops of water are thrown against the rocks. There you find me, closing my eyes as hard as I can, waiting for all the rest to leave the tent. Outside, is not as dark. The moon, the stars, and all those oil lamps, keep the cave somewhat lightened. The air is so fresh and breathable. I walk outside the cave and feel the cool breeze of the few minutes before dawn.