WILDFLOWER AND THE OPEN SECRET

It’s so hot there, the clouds and mist were there in the morning, and it looked as if it was going to continue. The overcast has its own beauty and nuance; it’s kind of willfully sad atmospheres. It reminds one of books gotten into, or good independent films, or thought processes themselves, - explored, in and around the rain. Even with Zen, thought can be wonderful. True wholeness is inclusive, all encompassing, and can include thought. Thought is not the enemy. Mind is not the enemy. Yet, - the clouds dispersed the incredible sun showed. It was not symbol for Enlightment, - not this time- it was really just the sun, - which is oddly enough more of enlightenment. But it was hot. Enlightenment was hot. Enlightenment was full of mosquitoes. They landed on my neck, liked my olive skin, liked something. But I continued. The land was empty and there was certain coolness at the least in the thickness of the wooded areas. The snakes and frogs were hiding. Even the squirrels were not around. So still. Almost too still. But that is okay. Finally going out, past the berries and the early stage raspberries, the field opened and there is a place, marshy, with some water, with some thick grasses the bend wonderfully under the cumulus that dots the blue. The one thing that didn’t seem to hide (there really weren’t even many birds), were the wildflower. And one wildflower can symbolize all wildflowers. Growing, having risen to the sun, alone, proud, autonomous looking but connected to everything, - …such is the wildflower. It waits in the night and sees the feral animals pass. It receives the rain, the storm, hearing the sounds of thunder and observing the lightning. The wildflower is actually a poet,- a poet maudis,- taking in strange vapors, toxins, scents, visions, stories,- living on the outside of everything,- from the beginning of life until the end in fact,- away from factories and schools, from business and industry, from the people and their ways. In a moment the breeze ceases and the wildflower stands. It is intricate, colorful, somehow quietly or understatedly lush is such could be. It’s admired. I feel and think it is my brother. We are brothers. I watch it. Does it see me? The moment, a graceful gift, a little holy artifact, a kind of communion, releases, and I move on. There are more things. The birches and the long fence that is wooden and flaxen. The deeper forest, where more mosquitoes seem to linger. The odd berries pale and pastel bluish-green. Clover and butterfly. I go slowly. It’s hot. It’s beautiful and rugged and many good things besides, but sometimes at those hours of the day it can become so hot in there.


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