23 July 2011

Rising Tide of Mess

I can’t say I “like” any of this. I don’t like objectifying it either, with my little commentary; the suffering is unspeakable. My inventory is fruitless. The labor to carry the suffering is suffering upon suffering. Where is the God who suffers for us? I want to see the one God who suffers for us. Oh dear . . .
Culture, I can’t even use a possessive, erodes around us. What my parents felt decent and wholesome in public when I was 6 no longer exists at 61. I didn’t send my 6 year old out to play as I was sent out when I was 6. Every fools face and name instantly appears in public places. I pay money for the privilege to watch 24/7. What was sensed then is overt now and in our face again and again.
We retreat behind locked doors, into locked homes, gated neighborhoods, and self-selecting content. We access via swipe cards, passwords, apps, scans, tag readers, secret signals, pills that makes us smaller or pills that makes us larger. We need inventories, analysis, and please some sort of recovery, while being overwhelmed and swept away in the tide. Our choices are stored and sorted to 6-sygma by quants and aggregators then sold. Market economy is dead. The market culture is alive. Human nurturing and culture is isolated, then swept aside. The streaming tide of distortion and disturbance seeps . . . into sacred spaces.
No, I can’t say I like any of this.

18 July 2011

Food in the Garden

I have a customer, a couple, Bob and Sara, who’re elderly; in their eighties. Their backyard is an oasis of green vitality, and of fruit trees and bushes, flowering shrubs, and garden flowers and vegetables. Birds are at home. There's a birdhouse subdivision, and many bird feeders. This backyard is orderly, each shrub or fruit tree is squared off with cedar timber, and the vegetable and flower garden plot is too.

Corn, sown along plumbed string, is now 8’ tall, and it grows in a straight line, and it’s a deep green, and tasselling down on its' silk. There's okra, tomato, green pepper, zucchini, yellow-squash, onion, garlic, green beans, beets, carrots, and broccoli; no potato. There're gladiolas, zinnias, and coreopsis, and their colors splash out from within the green. This plot is joyous, and I’m certain takes time, talent, and attention to detail. There're no weeds, and if there are they’re small, and waiting to be plucked. The whispy white haired husband and beauty- shopped dyed-hair-helmeted wife, smoke like chimneys, but are vital. So vital a part of me can’t figure why they called me to mow; in past I’ve seen both do it themselves.

The honor of mowing, trimming, and blowing their little eden is given to me to work. Well, of a time, it’s hot, humid, and I’m tired out, and I’m ready to put myself up wet. I’m at the front curb, laying out, the sunlight filtering down through the dogwood green leaves, and a breeze cooling me and tree leaves shading me, and their rustling sound of what I cannot see in my ears, recovering my strength.

Bob’s voice sounds in my ear.

“I’m going to Buddy’s for sandwich for Sara and me. Would you like one too?” I’m tired, and I wheeze, “Yes, thank you.”

“Now, you stay there and rest; I’ll be right back!”

“Yes, sir,” I say, “thank you.”

I stay there, and rest, and I see the green dogwood leaves, and the sunlight through them, and I hear the breeze of what I cannot see in the leaves, and I lay in shade, and I rest on grass Sara and Bob called me to mow.

14 July 2011

Water in the Garden

It’s July, and it’s hot and humid. I drink water, pouring it into me, and it sweats out. Hydrating is essential, or in the night I cramp-up, and it’s a painful cost.

All customers are considerate of the work I do, and the heat and humidity I work in, and all my customers ask me if I’d like water to drink. Often I say, “No, thank you.” I bring cold water to drink, and I purchase and drink orange juice and electrolyte replacement fluids.

I have a few customers who don’t ask, and who don’t give the choice, the choice to say “ Yes, thank you” or “No, thank you.” They give me water, literally, glass full of water in their extended hand in front of me. I always take it, drink it, and say, “Thank You.” And often it's a time we visit.

My work is a lawn & garden care service. All my customers are vital, and all my customers are considerate. I hold my customers in relation to me, and if not for my customers I don’t work or earn income. All my customers pay me for the work I do; I am glad of that. I know my customers are compassionate. All my customers ask me to drink; some hold the glass of water in front of my eyes.