Oriented times three – cognizant of person, place, time or event. I know who I am, where I am. I can tell you it’s winter, that I’ve been here in this specific location going on three years, but my version of the events leading up to this point will be strictly subjective and subject to interpretation. That brings into focus mental status, my awareness and whether I’m in touch with reality, pissed off, in la-la land or able to engage and communicate. I think I’m fine. Not only do I think it, I believe it and would argue quite vehemently if you concluded otherwise. I totally get what’s going on. I’m transforming.
I’ve undergone similar processes before; each subsequent metamorphosis one of refinement, a strengthening. Far from being rigid, a long way from being malleable, I’m more flexible now, able to bend and sway, go with the flow and remain grounded and supple.
Once more I step out and away, but this time is different. As if all that has gone before has laid the foundation for this journey, supplied solid groundwork for choices and pursuits, purposeful adventure, even direction. This time I know exactly what I do not want.
When I close the door, pull it tight and let go, I’ll walk away. I will definitely look around as I go, knowing all that could have been, was. That’s all there was to it – no more. The greenhouse where new life was planted, tended and nurtured is shrouded in frost. Cold. Empty. The warmth to come will be ignored, opportunity for growth unnoticed and, instead, likely, all the growing space will become storage, stagnant.
In the garden, what had been a beautiful riot of color has been dozed over in clay and mud, gray rock covering whatever will struggle toward warmth and light come spring. Uncared for, it will survive but not flourish, to wither away, unseen.
Seeds are planted in fertile ground, watered, weeded, tended. Bountiful, beautiful blooms and fruits, lush green and fragrant blossoms are harvested, prepared and offered, and left to waste, met with ever more gray mud that slowly advances until all is flat, compact, ready to be driven on – ultimately nothing more than a parking lot.
Life. Paved. Who can explain how that happened?