Morning Glories

Every year, a wall  of our inner garden is covered with morning glories. Deep blue, dust blue, crimson, and a mixture of whites and purple and even black if you can find them. My mother always nestled bunches of morning glories throughout her garden scape  The summer before her death, I harvested as many morning glory seeds as I could carry. Mom wasn't sure if she could manage the gardens anymore and she wanted me to have a part of her history. I have always loved the appeal of this hearty flowering vine (Convolvulaceae) and she knew it. Growing up if there was a garden my Mom planted morning glory seeds. I put those seeds she entrusted to me away for safe keeping. The circular metal shortbread cookie tin locked them away for another time. When she passed away, they were not forgotten, rather became a part of what would be. When we located to Paris, Ontario in 2015, the property was ripe for the crop and I began to plant my Mom's seeds. Every autumn since then and I have harvested them and stored them for the next year in that very cookie tin. Each year the next tally of seeds is cared for and allowed to spread with a fury. This section of the grounds is generational. Year after year, the children of the children of the children of the children find their place. Every year, I harvest them and set them aside for the coming spring. This year, so far, the hatching has been successful. By the end of August, the seeds will hang heavy upon the drying carcass of the spent plants. The creeping will stop. The seeds will mature. You have to watch them carefully, leaving them too late and you'll discover all those little black pebbles scattered about the ground beneath. Every time I engage in the annual process, I carry my Mom with me. I am reminded every time I give life to or see her hand me downs.  

I have a heritage filled with such touchstones. 

On the anniversary of the 14th year since her death, a friend asked me where my Mom was buried. I told him someone else has my parents. He fell sad for me as he assumed my misery.
"You must hate it that she is not with you," he concluded.

You'd think.

After all, I only have clippings of her hair; recordings of her singing; her recipes; the outfits she is wearing in the last pictures I have of her; some jewelry and some cologne; most of the antiques from the maternal side of my family including the tickle trunk she discovered all my snakes in; 100s of videos of her laughing, smiling, sharing secrets;; dozens of phone messages including 3 days before her death; most of the gifts I gave her over the years including her rocking chair; her autoharp and pick; an endless array of knickknacks and keepsakes; two large swans I once entrusted to her; every Christmas Card and label she gave to me since 1985; every gift she gave me since 1989 (even if it no longer works); I have things I'm not suppose to have and I have the very last visit just before her death (I see her waving goodbye for the final time); I had her friendship; there are 1000s of photographs and video no one else would have and there is the knowledge of how she felt at the end and her private letters to me collected when I lived in Toronto.

I have a few morning glory seeds.

Once I filled my friend in on the situation, he changed the question.

"You must miss not having her near?"

I have more of her here with me.

Existential Butterfly

I spied with my little eye a butterfly. 

A beautiful cyan blue, with black markings, it floated from flower to flower, immune to the danger that surrounded it on all sides. It seemed like a free agent in this inevitable and seemingly meaningless universe. It was silent while dancing, finally capturing that summer breeze and using it to its advantage. This was a creature of action, not words. As it played hopscotch on petals, I knew it knew. It alone was responsible for its experience. It picked each pretty flower, always true to itself and the nature of being a butterfly.

            I tried to catch it softly, cupping my hand beneath each flower where it rested. It simply fluttered away, aware but immune. So I tried to snatch it from its place, but it won the race and floated off to another flower. It lingered no matter what I did. It only seemed interested in acquiring each bloom. I looked at the creature, with great pause, studying it like a vision or sweet consequence. Then defeat came as it flew out of reach, whispering that "enough was enough."

            I sat down on the grassy hill and looked into the sun. My eyelids burnt a little, like the dried but once green patch beneath my hands. I wondered to myself how that insect knew. How could such a small thing recognize anything outside its own existence?  Did it really see me or hear me? Was it only chance that moved it away? Eventually, I forgot about that little blue fairy and I went on with my contemplation. Just in that moment, another butterfly landed on my leg.

 

It's a Wonderful Li*e

“A mind not to be changed by place or time.

The mind is its own place, and in itself

Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.”

(Paradise Lost, John Milton 1867)

            For almost 20 years, I have sat waiting for the world to be a better place. I have tried to do the right thing, striving to be the person I believed God, particularly Jesus, wanted me to be. I strove to be His hands and feet. I told myself that if I followed the supposed rules, if I towed the line, I would easily find happiness and fulfilment. When I realized I was fighting a losing battle, when I recognized I could not earn my way into heaven, my relationship with God changed. The way I viewed the world, it changed also. I became quite aware that the elusive Joy I was searching for always came in limited release. I could entertain it but I could never maintain it. Something, usually life, always got in the way. It still does. I always assumed that my relationship with the divine would ultimately bring me comfort but I was wrong. There is no ascension for us, no level of happiness we can fully achieve. We are all hopelessly mired down by the very thought of it. The idea that salvation, while earthbound, comes from God is outdated and repugnant to me. The notion that anything can bring you real happiness is nothing but an enormous prevarication. The truth is, happiness is one great big wonderful lie.

            They tell me the only true way to find peace is to bring it upon yourself. We are responsible for our state of being, whether we know it or not.  This might seem valid when viewed from some distance but most people have little to no control over their lot in life. While we can choose to maintain our sense of well-being throughout any cataclysm, it is almost impossible to do. There seems little purpose in all our suffering. The fact remains, there is no hope behind our madness and no apparent order to all our chaos. I do not mean to imply that one is unable to find happiness within this life. What I mean is that happiness, to almost every degree, is always brief and fleeting. It comes and goes like good weather. It is oh so mortal to go with that flow. Our balance and resolve has a direct correlation to the experiences we encounter on a daily basis. This happiness is a very subjective state. What might give one person peace and understanding may well bring sorrow and heartache to another. It all depends on your point of view. Yes, it is true, deciding to be happy, and then doing so, is more than possible. We all have the innate ability to ride out the storm. We all can have that elusive thing called Joy. I would argue that these moments are brief, covered over by one thing after another until we want to scream. We can tell ourselves it will all be okay, we can convince ourselves that this is so but no matter what you do, you must suffer. It is through suffering that we find the very God we have been looking for.

            Religion has told us that the reward for following this God or that God is peace "that passes understanding" (Philippians 4:7). I for one would like to know just how long it is supposed to take before we can take advantage of this so-called reward. I have never known it but for the briefest of moments throughout my adult life. I may have known it better as a child but it left me as soon as the hair grew in. Christianity promised me this elusive nature and all I would have to do was surrender to Jesus. I did so several times and each time I was left more wanting than the time before. I wasn't sure if my mistake was expecting Him to answer or taking it personally when He didn't. All I know is that the sense of God I was looking for never came from a book or an idea. No matter how I tried, no matter the changes made deep within me, I was left alone. Surely God must realize the damage such abandonment can do. I often asked myself if He ever gets involved in our petty drama-filled lives to begin with. Maybe it wasn't that He wasn't listening, perhaps He just can't get involved. Maybe He doesn't want to get involved. Any sense of spirit, any energy we interact with, is merely a projection from inside ourselves. Maybe we just make it up as we go along and don't even realize just who we are fooling. All I know is what I know. Either God hates me (for whatever reason) or He just couldn't help me. The truth may lie in one reality.

            Who knows if God hears our cries. Who knows if He interacts with us, assists us with our living. I have never met a single person who maintained a lasting peace because they knew God and had a relationship with Him. I have known people who found ecstasy  in the presence of the Holy Spirit or found rapture praying at the Wailing Wall. I have never seen a lasting degree. These states perish, often quickly, and are replaced by a different day but the very same shit. It can appear that God really only does us any good when we are mentally in tune with whatever force claims to protect us. It seems like it is all in our heads. We create these divine relationships out of necessity, fantasy and desperation. Most people only turn to a God when they need something, like money or a bigger dick. There are many people who would make the claim that God is with them, that He moves inside them and has set them free. Once they get home and close the curtains, they have as much doubt, as much pain, as any heathen would. Of course, because they have said all the right words, the Master of the entire universe comes down to make them feel happy and blessed and forgiven. Until it fades away again. We can convince ourselves that anything is true. We do it every day.

           This has not been a wonderful life. Granted, there are numerous happy and engaging experiences I have had. I have known happiness often, but briefly. I have fond memories of great love and my heart is often filled with much compassion. I have much empathy for people who suffer and people who don't. I am in tune with agape love and the responsibility it brings. My sympathy goes out to the afflicted and those who needlessly suffer including animals. I myself have known so much turmoil. I have known so much pain. Sometimes this life was not worth living. I failed at my attempt to make it better for me, at least in my own mind at the time. All these years that I stood knocking at heaven's door have shown me, there is no door. Despite my religious conditioning, despite my spiritual experiences, I have to come to the realization that I have survived this path all on my own. No one helped me make it through besides me. I did it. There were many times when I leaned on God to awaken my soul but I've simply been left quite bitter and so very much alone. That's the trap when following a god. It's all good and well until the silence rings through. When you are instructed to turn to God and He just isn't there, it's not Him we blame. We punish ourselves for not being good enough. If "they" get the spirit, if "they" are granted peace, then what the hell am I doing wrong.?

            George Bailey aside, it all just seems like some wonderful lovely lie. We find ourselves in an otherland so full of promise but that doesn't make it real. God bestowing Joy onto one person but not every person rings of something other than fair and all-loving. Seems a little human if you ask me. If there is a God, I mean God not "the source", then would an omniscient and omnipotent being favor one mortal over another? Would It grant benefits to one believer but not unto someone seeking? If we are to believe the status quo, that God is with us, then He is with all of us. The degree to which He manifests is unique and singular. God is different for everyone. Each person's experience shapes and molds the very fabric of their calculated deity. It is a projection rather than an observation. It is an extension of how a person feels about themselves. Any sense of happiness we find was part of us all along. Does that mean we don't need a god to discover it?

“Me miserable! Which way shall I fly

Infinite wrath and infinite despair?

Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;

And in the lowest deep a lower deep,

Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,

To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.”

(Paradise Lost, John Milton 1867)