Bellflowers and Snapdragons
Hear the call and feel the bite. It is time to love.
“Love Is Threatened”
A Raying Out Of The Spirit
The blind know (or Jacques Lusseyran did, in any case) that things come to meet you half way. The object responds to your touch. All you need to do, is bear down slighly upon it and it will press back up lightly into you.
Every thing you need (and re-cognise as such to be needed) wants to defy gravity. It's the magic of existence. Fancy the miracle of life on top of that....
Can anybody imagine - in these black hole days - that love not only still matters, like in the days when God loved Adam enough to give him his Eve, but that it matters more than ever before as the only weapon against mass mechanical destruction?
Amazing Encounter
To meet with is to exchange pressures. These touches grow into a dancing pattern, like a double helix with its own music singing itself beyond its shape (the tree, the table, you, me) to mean something in the fluid freedom of Love. To see what you believe - with those deep space inner eyes - is to know love is all you need.
Then spread out your arms to whirl like a dervish in heavy wool.
Love to love, for love's sake. Sprinkle holy wine and rinse well. Remove the why from your centrifuge mind and love your beloved in draughts of living spirit.
If the blind can see that much, is it not time to see less in CMYK or Pantone? Rely less on the screens and dots an more on the faith?
I never did believe in miracles / But I've a feeling it's time to try (Fleetwood Mac, “You Make Loving Fun”)
Jacques Lusseyran (blinded accidentally at age 8, he died in 1971, aged 47) was a lover of love and his legacy to us today is a (very urgent) call to feed the Real Ear of the Heart its music. How else will we get the soul to sparkle, like a sparkler on a dark deep mid-winter night?
It is worth remarking that Jacques died in a car accident, not unlike Camus, but unlike Camus, he died along with his wife in the same accident. I fancy he went singing: "I don't have to tell you but you're the only one".
Any Which Way: SEE!
Maybe, it does not matter who you love, as long as you love. You definitely won't find this possible to do with every soul you meet; one is not sainted, or the saviour of any soul, until thus appointed by one's lover.
Perhaps, it is only possible to be in love with the one or maybe two you teamed up with long before you knew how well or poorly distracting the rest of life would be. It would, I would advocate, I do believe, be an efficient use of devotion and dedication to the human-angelic plight of becoming a brotherhood of man.
) Recommendation.
Cultivate the allotment of your soul with Akhenaten (aka Amenhotep IV)- like trust in its glow.
Watch the setting sun; wake up to its arising. It will come to you how it goes.
Allow the enchantment to self-seed itself in your breast. It rings true. It roars out. It breathes flame. Meaning to engrave itself in the data bank for all future paradise gardens.
Absolutely stunning, whirling poetic prayer to love and life 💕💕💕 Love matters, always, ESPECIALLY in these black hole days.
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I've been studying your posts again tonight even if I seem a bit silent on comments. Was especially trying to find the one that included balloons in Albuquerque. Strangely, it's been surfacing as a place, now I wanted to go back to what you must already have known, but seems it was about being nimwitted, so not sure it's what I want to hear?
Dearest, after we have dropped off OV at Lovelace Respiratory Research Institute for a general inquiry whether they have found anything new with which to remove silica dust from tile-setter lungs, after which he can set the kids up with some proper knowledge by giving some guest lectures at Central New Mexico Community College, to then commune with the fish at Albuquerque Biological Park, we will celebrate life and death at National Museum of Nuclear Science & History (what a charming combo of subjects) and walk into the desert to find a stray, lonesome, singular, off-chance balloon (or is the ballooning season never over in sunny, colourful Albuquerque, and have we to pick amongst a horde?). To this balloon we shall sing like two little puddles of Silent Saturday mothers and sisters, in the fashion of the great ballooner Winnie-the-Pooh, for all the ones who aspire to be free:
How sweet to be a Cloud
Floating in the Blue!
Every little cloud
Always sings aloud.
“How sweet to be a Cloud
Floating in the Blue!”
It makes him very proud
To be a little cloud.
Lessons from Pooh
And then we three (maybe four? Depends on the grand finale birthday gift, shall we wait to say?) shall reconvene to sit on igneous rock in the Petroglyph National Monument, where all will fall silent to form a midst of knowing as we all knew it would. Reading to eachother from the petroglyphic rocks we already know by heart.
Gratitude for popped balloons and empty pots.
And, sitting on the sunny rocks no matter the final number.
another tip: grow plants!
another tip:
@tipu curate ;)
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