Stardust Culture

Like the first man to stand upon solid ground, I am composed of dust.

But it is not simple dust—it is complex in its stirring.

Its origins come from afar, amongst the blaze and fire of the cosmos.

Cooked to a perfect grain, it is filtered and tried by the wind and the currents of the earth until it is broken down to a magnificent realization.

It is dust that makes me—star dust.

I am naked below the starlight.

From the elements of fire within the giant star, I’m created.

I want to be dust in the gardener’s hands.

I wish to be a cloud of finely powdered earth in the air of creation.

Crushed to the simplest of my substance I can understand who I am and what is to become of me.

No matter how long I may live, or how high I may fly, I will never touch life more than through the humility of my soul’s dust.

I feel the earth move in the garden.  All around me, life is stored.  In the insignificance of dirt, I can create my way of life.  Earth is not the death of my spiritual soil; it is the conception of it.

Under the sunshine, I feel the gardener reach into my earth to amend my soil, to remove the unwanted things.  When he concludes, my dust is new and young.

Crushed to my beginning, my ground is broken into a million pieces.  In the granules of my simple dust, my emotions mix with the sun and the rain.

There in the unsown ground, I can feel all my laughter and sense my darkest pain.

There, in the garden, I can see my father, my mother, my sister, and my older twin brothers, in truth.

There in the dust of faith and love, I can live as I am.

Soil Culture

I wasn’t a gardener until my father died.  It is in my soil where grow all things that are me.    

I plead with the gardener to sink his hands into my dirt and help me grow the world of my full imagination. 

As they reach into my ground I am moved by the fingers that push my dust and clay here and there.  Moving my dirt is important because I have rocks and filth that get in the way of me growing the beliefs and philosophy that I desire.

From amended ground comes the peaceful culture.  Clay full of life, not death; earth that promotes truth, not lies; dust that builds an honest way in the wilderness—this is the cultivated soil that creates the culture of Life.

I aspire toward an eternal peace and warmth.  Not to live forever is my wish, but to be young in my garden and true in my spirit for as long as I breathe.

To freeze time and be one with eternity; to be childlike in my creations and unequalled in my mercy; to be infinite in my soil—this is the culture of my dreams.

Garden Culture

My soil doesn’t like to be disturbed.

My soil horizons are simple, but can be extremely dense and not perfect ground for growing things.  

And yet, there are living things growing in my soil that rise above my imperfections. 

Despite my fears and weaknesses, a garden has managed to grow in my culture.  And like the ground it grows in, the garden is long-standing. 

The gardener has diligently tended to my soil, carefully pruning my branches, in a quest to nurture my fruit.  In power, my ground is protected from weeds and corrupt elements.

Working the soil is a constant of the garden. 

Calling my spirit, the spring awakens my soil, and in my awakening, the gardener is compelled to sink his hands into the loam and touch my earth. 

To give love; to grow life; to protect the seed—these are the noble feats of the gardener.             

These are the musings that give life to me. 

I am loved by the gardener, and every spring I am reborn in the gentle sprout and abundant leaf.