Fresh Rose petals minced into pancake batter, flecking and infusing the bread with red. Fresh Rose petals chopped and sprinkled over honey cakes, eat love hot from the griddle where Jasper liberally drops flakes of butter around the sizzling batter while he sings and burbles and the pancakes chatter.
Daily beginning side by side, cuddling close in the dark last night, lightening flashed through every window from all directions while fireflies talked with stars. He covered his eyes and made Ai-ai-aa-ee sounds as thunder joined with rumbling rounds and everything was electric.
We walk almost daily down and over the ruts and rocks breathing in the scent of Wild Roses all the way. A delicate fragrance, as elegant as the white petals that curl and drop off in showery show. A subtle note of citrus, its color the same as those orange pollen bearing anthers that powder the nose leaning into the center of the rose for a deep inhale. A handful gathered and digested makes nostrils flare and then the whole world shifts and there’s glittering in the air.
Creamy coral mushrooms are colonizing. They have a shimmering energy where their tops touch. Snail eye stalks. What are they passing on one to the other along curved crumbly reef ridges? Invisible bridges appear and on the flittering wings of butterflies I see the same shimmering. Glimmering on the streams around swallows. Rippling around. Carrying messages on frequencies insight. Glowing, growing, glistening, gleaning.
Rocks, for leaning against at the river’s side. Being with water, daughters, a son filling liquid into one shoe and pouring it in the other, bringing it to his mother. Slow steady summer days, pockets full of stones. Focusing. Studying. Listening. Stone Song. Heart of stone. Cold as stone. Stone People listen to all the strife that’s rife, the wails and woes, the gloom and doom, the liturgical chants numerous and varied from mourning to morning doves coos; wouldn’t you have to be as cold as stone, as hard as rock to absorb all of it without cracking and quaking instantaneously under the enormity of it all?
Watching Snail climb toward the aqua ruffles frilling around a fallen stick. His shell is etched with patterns, the colors of who he is marked on his abode. Moving with him wherever he goes, muscles elongate and retract. He’s busy being who he is. Intent. Content. Silent. Serene. Still. His shell protects his gift of Snailness, facilitates his walkabout well, keeps him on track and aligned with what he’s been assigned. He spends no time gazing at the sky, wishing he were a bird and could fly. He Is Snail. Apple is Apple and Orange is Orange. Eat Apple and compare it to Orange is to neither know nor understand what’s what, depreciating of its beingness and one’s own. When an Orange is what’s wanted, fetch one and appreciate it. When none are available, don’t eat Apple while longing for Orange. Go without instead.
Snail senses with snail senses. Moves with his own shadow. To walk in the shadow of another is to become smothered. Step into the shell and emerge with eyes that tell where your shadow lies, watch while yourself dies, and rises: crawls, toddles, runs, dances, swims into your own streaming. What’s in Snail’s Dreaming?
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