becoming

this is what is known as a liminal phase.

no longer a flower, not yet a fruit; a thing that is between stages is nothing...nothing but becoming.

woodpath

well, i'm back to earth now...

between the imperturbable stones, under the leaves of last year 
from moss, nature's hardy optimist
arise, peaceable blades, and salute your lord sun
the march of seasons calls for rank upon rank to rise
and cover this earth in summer's green

firelanche

i thought it bore repeating - a most singular experience, but not a singular posting.

the serenity of this pure and silent place, and i, aloft in this boundless celestial dome. the sheer vastness of the stage sunset's avalanche of silent fire raged across, as it swept away the veil which bars the starry heavens from mortal eye.

i quite forgot i'd been in coach for 4 hours.

skysea

new perspectives - they can make all the difference. above the storm, the moon shines silent and serene on a calm sea of clouds.

the gift of flight gives humanity - and their attendant tiny observers - the chance to see this miraculous perspective; to look down upon the world and see the familiar borders of every map to be nonexistent. to see up into the boundaryless sky and think, not even the sky is the limit.

bliss

it's not just the way the light shines at once on and through the water

or the way all the colors of its surroundings seem to dance within the stream

not merely the vibrant colors and contrasts of clay pot and bright, broad leaves

nor the way the soil sparkles darkly in its saturation

neither is it the rich smell of wet soil, or even the subtle hose-pipe/watering-can smell of cool water

it is standing in the sunlight, these sensations coming at me all at once; it is that which makes this my favorite part of the day.
 

great

eggcorn:  a word or phrase that results from a mishearing or misinterpretation of another, an element of the original being substituted for one which sounds very similar. such a change isn't a mondegreen because it doesn't create a new meaning, and it isn't a spoonerism or a malapropis) because the swapped words sound the same; they're homophones.

the term was coined in 2003 as a result of a discussion on the language log website, in a discussion about a woman who misheard the word acorn as eggcorn.

now, show of hands: how many of you saw the title and the thumbnail, and thought, hold on a second. that's not right. eggcorns are a telling little eddy in the flow of communication, in which apocryphal definitions can become true as common use redefines reality. sorry to involve you in my little experiment all unwittingly; but i do find it terribly interesting how many people would catch, or accept, i'm doing just grate, thanks.

showers

april showers come suddenly
and patter at the window
but like a game of ringing doorbells
by the time you go to the window
the sun is shining again
leaving you looking through raindrops at a clear sky

 

foreshadowing

i can tell, even from down here

that spring is here, and summer is on its way

summering

i know it's simply too extravagant, but i've had my eye on this little-used mailbox in the neighboring street.

it would make a darling rustic retreat, in which to get a little space, some solitude...and, as always, regain a sense of proportion. not for the everyday commute, obviously; but as a little seasonal retreat? divine.

the residents simply do not seem to receive mail, which i suppose is possible in this marvelously computerized age; i, as you may glean, am completely in favor of not having to run all over this wide world to get things done. but, sometimes, it's good to get away from it all...your humble pro may be doing some summering this year, dear readers; be prepared for a hiatus!

at least it's not a beach house.

grow

the house knows it's spring. the herbs by the kitchen window have new young leaves, blushing a fresher green than their stolid surrounding predecessors. the hanging plant sends its tendrils straining through empty space towards the window. even the garlic bulbs in their little disposable net bag somehow feel the call - rise, sprout and live again. somewhere, outside your bag, outside this kitchen, beyond roof and these four walls, spring is here. it is time for all good growing things to become green, to strive and follow the light up into the sky.

unlooked for, unbidden, the magic of spring calls back the life of a tasty garnish.

while the folk-memories of fertility bring euphemistic eggs and representational rabbits to the fore, i will see the soul of spring in a garlic bulb, and think of what this season truly is about - the imperative to live, and grow.

flock

ah, for the flight of small birds - there is no miracle quite as uplifting (ha!) as the soaring, billowing ebb and flow of hundreds of little birds. they swell like a sail in the light spring breeze; blown, seemingly helplessly, to wherever the wind might take them. the swirling changes in direction, so like the schooling of fish, baffles me - how do they know where to go, where to be? without the guiding ripples of a universe of water, how can they weave together as closely as fish, never knocking another member of the flock out of that clear blue sky? for no one leads, and therefore none can follow; they all just understand, instinctually, where and how to be from moment to moment.  i have never seen one fall.

it is ineffable. and, any attempt at puns aside, it lifts my spirits.

rosy

warm sunshine, baby birds and fluffy white clouds have lifted me out of the mire...i am no longer looking down to the slush and the murk, but to the sky and its promise of spring. i look up more than most of the humans i've worked with; and yet, there are so many things out there specifically to help you humans do so.

i envy you your stylish sunglasses, your great statures as a vantage point, your binoculars; binoculars would be very helpful in my line of work, if only they were a manageable size! but alas, tiny observers must always try to see through other's eyes...and sometimes peer through their specs. if these can be rose-colored glasses, all the better.

but regardless of method, i'm feeling optimistic that things are looking up - even more than i usually do - and although it may only be ceiling tile, what i see up there is roseate.

cracks

in the unbroken monotony of a perfect winter snowscape, the unfortunate facts of life are covered over. a muffling blanket of nature's purity hides dog poo, potholes, and litter from sight. this makes a big difference for those who have to take these things head-on, as it were.

 

but now the world turns towards spring, and the sun's gentle touch has awakened the world in all its messy glory. ice becomes slush, rushes through the gutters and down the drain, a brief and frozen perfection now pouring into the sewers. winter's follies are laid bare, all that lay hidden under months of snowfall is revealed; and now, the cracks begin to show.

 

burnt

it's a savage time of year, dear readers, that's no lie...there's a limit to the endurance of every spirit, and the end of a bleak winter will try even the most patient of souls.

warmth and life are a faded memory, and the palette of grays that nature has chose besmear the world with doesn't help. gray skies, gray clouds; gray dirty old snow.

all is slush.

and then the cold & flu season comes to reap its terrible harvest of used tissues and expended sick days.

i tell you, dear readers, pro is a little burnt out. apologies for the gap in our communications, i daresay i have been letting this great big world get on top of me these past 2 weeks...something you cannot afford to do when you are only an inch high. i was spending some time being sick in bed sock, and i found myself shivering, but too weak and lethargic to even light my candle. after all that effort! honestly.

we have to be careful, don't we, to not let ourselves be snuffed out - to rekindle our own flame, and not allow the ill winds of fate to blow it out.

may your fires burn until the very last - all the way down.

melt

this past week i took a walk out in the enpuddled springtime to bring you an up-close perspective on the fine line between winter and spring, between freezing ice and flowing water. the transition of a turning world to warmer days ahead.

and i walked the line.

pep

head colds are difficult for everyone, but i feel that the halls cough drops folks are getting unseemly amounts of pleasure from kicking those who are down.

"a pep talk in every drop" sounds like a cheerful idea at the outset, but it is perhaps the nature of their work - catering to the phlegmy, muzzy-headed ill - that brings out the vindictive, aggressive side of these drop-mongers. what are meant to be encouraging words come off like the assaulting catch phrases a-type sports fathers scream at their children from the sidelines at practice.

competitive sports never were my metier, and now is really not the time to be fending off soccer dads. i wish you'd leave well enough alone, halls; just print out a picture of a rabbit or something inoffensive that a congested head can process, hmm? you don't see the tissues offering judgment.

...yet.
 

nuts

i awoke to an early morning of industry on the part of my client, nadine, today. she was at the old wooden cutting board, hunched diligently over a mountainish molehill of walnuts.

she was uncharacteristically silent about her work, but i stood by for a possible "how many of these things are there?" scenario, and the kitchen clock ticked its politely subdued tick while the minutes marched past.

it had been another quarter of an hour before she lifted her head, and wiped her forehead wearily. she looked down at her work, and then asked blankly,

"why did i chop these?"

and, as hard as it was for me to admit, i could not answer her.

as per my directive as a tiny observer, however, i had to collapse the waveform of possibility with a response: perhaps you've just gone nuts.

under

i was back down in the kitchen area for a supply run, and for nostalgia's sake i dropped by my old place. i looked at the under-the-hutch area where that jerk neighbor mouse used to live; now, compared to the cozy luxury of my behind-the-bookshelf penthouse, i wonder what i ever saw in the place. dust bunnies, right by the kitchen trash, and the cat food dish right out front in case you hadn't had enough horrible smells.

still, it was home for a long time...and sometimes familiar is mistaken for comfortable, which is practically a synonym for good. funny how the mind can pay tricks on one, even a very observant one such as myself.

now i wonder what else might be keeping me under with this familiar/comfortable/good subduction...under the china hutch of my own potential, as it were. reflect, dear reader: what keeps you under?

stray

"and you know who's going to have to clean this up, of course."

yes, nadine; it's you.

"and do they ever think for a moment about the consequences?"

no, nadine. they obviously do not.

"how many times - oof - have i told them that - oof - they can't bring in any old cur they find on the street?"

i can remember you telling them at least twice before this, nadine.

"and here i am again, scrubbing paw prints out of carpet. am i doing this for my health?"

no, nadine. your joint pain could not possibly be benefiting from this floor work.

"i should tan their hides...oh, they'll bawl, and I'll be the bad guy...but who's the one who'll be scrubbing the floor again next time they find some mongrel, eh?"

it will be you, nadine.

"dog-mad, they are. but if i'd went out, got them one for christmas like they asked, who'd end up feeding it, eh? walking it? would they be outside at four in the morning so it could squat on the lawn?"

almost certainly not, nadine. children under ten sleep remarkably soundly.

"dig up my yard, track on my floors, eat me out of house and home...i'm supposed to pay for this privilege?"

apparently so, nadine.

"can you believe this - the third time i've told them! the third time!"

it is hard to believe, nadine; but your tally is correct.

"how many times am i supposed to just get down here, hands and knees, and not say a word?"

i couldn't tell you, nadine.

"is there any reason for this, any at all..."

i am also unclear why they would bring a dog to you after repeated scoldings, nadine.

"oh, just look at this - look!"

i see, nadine. the dirt is quite well ground-in.

"they don't hear a word of it - but if i gave them a spanking, tried to leave an impression, what would i be?"

the bad guy, nadine.

"never listen - no one ever listens."

i do, nadine. i do.

work

you may have had occasion to wonder about my work as a tiny observer.

as well you might...

as a physical function of rhetorical phrasing, t.o.s are there to fill the space assigned to such phrases as "get a load of this guy." load-getting is a reasonably easy case, much less time consuming than a "i worked and i slaved, and where did it get me?" project. the history-building for such a contract is made even more difficult by the open-ended phrasing, which prohibits any sort of time parameters with which to work in.

my current contract is with an older woman named nadine, who who needs a lot "look at the state of _______" work done. it is not very onerous, but the frequency of the phrasing means i'm on-call most of the day. the physical hazards are not very great, as she has joint pain and her movements are quite limited. she needs regular "can you believe it" work done at the post office, however, as she's involved in some sort of long-term grudge match with the staff there.

but no matter what she's facing, i'm right there with her. usually on her her shoulder, peering around her ear.

it is vital work, actualizing the linguistic forms of people; in creating an invitational space through phrasing in language, anything could be called into being. a tiny observer both validates the client, and by being there precludes the need for ravening creatures from outside reality to manifest in the mundane world. it's good to do something you can feel proud of at the end of the day.