The garden was the start. Just as the flower begins underground wrapped in the warmth of the heat-filled earth, so I began, just a seedling, just a thought of all the things I could become. I've searched for years with no resolution, with all the resolve I could muster. I will find it in myself I said, but now I begin to wonder. I wonder if the seed by itself is enough. Can it grow without water, without sun, without earth? Can love grow without sustenance, passion, and work?
It’s quiet here. I like that. The trees barely rustle, the birds chip, but they leave me to my thoughts. In fact, they add to them. The nature of the thing is its nature itself unselfish, always giving, unrestrained. I seek it in earnest and find it not. Have I done wrong by it? Were my words too harsh? Will it not return to me? I said it because I like to lie to myself, to hide my need for this thing, this beautiful thing, this belonging.
But still the pebbles on the ground seem soft in comparison to my soul, hardened and calloused-over by the “reality” of the world. When will I realize the “reality” is no reality at all? When will I rebel against the traditional social norms set before me? Would he forgive me if I did?
It sounds like rain, it’s time to run and hide again.
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