Matrimonial Garden

The Japanese weeping cherry is blossoming.

The Japanese maple is also blossoming.

For the first time in the garden, the maple tree and the cherry tree are blooming together.

It is a beautiful sight.

The weeping cherry represents Mom; the maple represents Dad.

The garden is a wedding venue, the ceremony witnessed by the sun and the stars.

The synchronized blooming of the trees is like wedding vows, the promises of two friends whose friendship has developed into a loving relationship.

The rocks are reflective, as if they sense the event.

The garden is a place of union and Communion.  It is a place of weddings and truthful vows.

I remember how happy I was in my old life.  I miss the love I once had.  I yearn for a new love, a love that promises one last chance to live and be fruitful.  It must be a love that is faithful, a love that is true.

The garden is calling to me again; I hear its voice stirring in the corners of my heart.

I am awakening to a new life, a life to create a new era, a new tomorrow.  Getting stronger every day, I am a soul touched by providence, inspired by hope.

The Matrimonial Garden by the great lake is blooming.

I am the gardener who tends to the bloom... What is more, I hear wedding bells.

Eternal Soul 

Life in the land of 4 seasons is difficult this time of year.  The warm air of spring warring with the cold air of winter leads to undefined storms.

Snowstorms become rain storms, as the winds of the seasons reverse time and the land is reborn.  Blasting from the west and the south, the winds of change push away the storms of winter and escort in the new season of spring and my spirit awaits the sun breaking through the cold clouds.  My soul tastes the rains as the wetness soaks the soil of my garden.

Every year, the spring is new, never aging, and always full of life and wonder.

Below heaven's sunlight, I am a child again, lost in the miracle of the seed.  From the trees can be heard the robin serenading his new found paramour; out of the dirt can be felt the seed breaking the bonds of gravity as the tulip and the rose offer their beauty to the sun; across the air, I breathe in the fragrance of love and romance.

As long as my northern garden is made new in the season of spring, all things become new and love can restore the cold heart.

In my dreams, I call out to the comely handmaid of my dreams.

In the life of the seed, eternity is faithful.

Death Culture

You shouldn’t do that.  You’re too young; you’re too old.  You shouldn’t get your hopes up, that way you’re not disappointed.  You’re a dreamer and dreamers don’t accomplish anything.  No one’s done it before, so it can’t be done.  You can’t.  You’re not smart enough.  You’re not good enough.

The artists of death are all around me, speaking in familiar voices and common words.  Their messages are rational and may be sincere, meant for my best interest.  In the end, they’re a slow death.

Common sense is great… until it kills you.

Death and fear are the weeds that attack my soil.

There comes a point when dying is no longer an option, when living is the only choice.

These artists of death are illusionists for they do not own the rights to my death.

I own the rights to my life, and I will not allow anyone to take it from me.

He, who is the Author of my life, removes death from my soil—all that remains is life.

Where there is life there is happiness.

Where there is life… love always follows.

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.