Standing on a grassy hill in the cool of an oak tree, with my hands in
my pockets I let my gaze bathe the
country. An open skyscape above, an open landscape below show up in my
opened space. I can't find edges between the two scapes and my space. I
am the skyscape. I am the landscape. I am the
In the unity of it all, in the oneness of all this that I am, a still
small voice calls out in the back of my head desperate to be heard.
From time to time I may listen to it. From time to time I may even
respond like a loving
listening to a child crying for attention. That's when I notice with
wonder and awe how, being one with it all, I'm thrown automatically to
pull back, to separate myself from it. I am this
country / I'm not this
country. The mixture is both disconcerting and liberating.
I love this
country bathing in my gaze. It's more than love - I don't know what it
is but it's more than love.
When it's hot I'm hot. When it's cool I'm cool. When I'm in the mood
for creating I dab ice white cloud wisps high on the deep saffron
sunrise sky. Then, just for fun, I skitter them languidly from horizon
to horizon, playfully chasing after them with a moaning in ecstasy
softly sighing dry morning breeze.
When I look down at the valley floor carpeted with ruler edged corduroy
lines of vines, it's groaning under the weight of a rich, bountiful
harvest. In my mind's eye I run my fingers through them just as I would
caress my lover's long sensuous hair as it cascades over my body like
water from a breaking wave.
This is my lover, this
country. And I'm the
country. I'm totally blown away by it and slightly in tears. We're
surrounded by beauty like this which we drive by everyday not seeing.
I'm that beauty which is trivialized into normalcy by frittering talk
of no consequence. Yet when I'm here, when I'm this
country, there's enough for everyone, there's no war, and everyone goes
at night with a satisfied stomach.