Planting Seeds
What it is to plant the seeds, how can we but rejoice
in
watching them grow? Here and there, sprouting
upwards, ever
receding into that from which they came.
A forest of forms, more
beautiful as preformed by
necessity. Is there a garden without a
single weed?
What a shame it would be, for they but make
the
delightful flowers more brilliant, and in their own
way,
due to their proximity to the earth, are no less
vital and
enduring. Of all the flora, what is it to
them such things as
rejection or high regard? Our
awareness may act only as a
morning mist, coming in
and out of their presence whilst
nourishing their
fibers ever so delicately. How deceiving their
awful
splendor and dazzling beauty may be! Though this
deception
need not be one of betrayal, like that
of an artificial tree, as
it is in such that the plant
life bespeaks of its life
fulfilling abundance,
calling us towards it as it calls fourth
the bees.
"Come and see, I am the world, everything is
for, in
and by me," it says to me. And I must take it at
it's
word, if only for a moment, if I am to appreciate
it's
singular beauty. Yet it is in vain that the
flower seeks the
sun, for if it were to even come
close to it's goal, it would
surely be burned. Here we
must not place our own conditioned
strivings and
unfulfilled desires upon it and instead make
it’s
silence a testament to our own. In this silence, if
we
are to direct our gaze a bit deeper beyond the veil of
infinitely
reflecting light beams, we shall come to a
single
ground. We begin to become dimly aware of the dancing
fingers
of roots twisting about making what grows above all
but
indistinguishable. Further on lies layer after layer
of the
decomposed stretching far below that which we
found to be so
perfectly composed. And if we
continue our journey, we come to
the pulsating core,
one with such energy and superabundance,
that it gives all
surface life the quality of a dream. Is not
the
golden center of a dandelion but a vague recollection
of
such? Like the foam resting atop the precipice of
a wave, our
sense of order rests perilously upon light
years of an unknown
order, going to where we do not
know, for a purpose unseen. With
such an
understanding, how absurd it is to claim to be
the
master of what we grow! To cordon off our plants, as
if
they may last forever as servants to our own
remembrance. Let us
not identify with that which we
grow nor secure ourselves as
their maker, for whether
we realize it or not, all plants grow
from one
source within and through the supporting substratum
of
a single energy which by no means can be portrayed or
imagined.
Let us remember that all growing techniques
and
innovations are mere fertilizer for a process that
acts
as a whole. The core itself is but a perpetual
dissipation, and
the dust, to which we shall return,
along with the many
mountains of the earth, shall find
their way to emptiness, a
silver chord of a particle
that was, now floating on the
non-mirror of
nothingness. Look with sharp attention upon any
plant
and you will find this emptiness in its very
form,
untouched by thought, unfettered by time, smiling back
at
you in an eternal recognition. No need to despair,
let us enter
again the garden! Let our plants be
allies, use their roots to
heal and purge ourselves, use
their wonders to remember and
realize, and to share
their fruits freely in the light of a
transformative vision.