A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.~Antoine de Saint-Exupery
As I walked through the mind of the curious the other day, I thought, life isn’t like this. No not that but this. The trees, the grass, the flowers the buildings, none of this is like that.
Everything has structure, or so it seems. The trees that arise from the seed stretch out into the air in three dimensions. With sleep and rebirth year after year, as the tiny buds keep blooming every spring and lend a helping hand to occupy more space, they grow. Why yes, that is the this, that I know, not that; this is the colossal unyielding, unmoving giant with a million hands looking out for the sun, shaking incessantly with the breeze in a manner saying “no” to the forces beyond its control, but steadfast in its resolve to weather the storm. In that fight these mighty giants get sculpted into a different form. Nature bends them in order not to break, but always retains their character. They would seem as if they wanted to flee from the oppressor and exposing their soft underbelly of stark scaffolding that herald them up to the sky, yet, even with that exposure, they remain rooted in their foothold. Determined and resolved to persevere.
But what of this thought. Imagination, isn’t it? How wonderful to see what the “discerning" eye cannot. How wonderful it is to behold a different perspective invited by the magic of thought. How simply magnificent!
The magnolia bloom littering the grass with its pink and purple color flowers readying itself for a rebirth, growth and expansion in a neatly arranged thought of cause and effect is not this. But that, another perspective as it taints it differently. Is it not the death of many a rabbit with the landscape littered with bunny-ears.? No, no, of course it isn’t the remains of a genocide of the rabbit population, but the fearful unrestrained emotional expanse of a blossoming mind. These are all the discarded thoughts fallen to the ground to find nourishment and fashion a rebirth of newer better more elaborate thoughts. Indeed the essence of a differing perspective. This view of the world is from a two-feet-six-inches rather than six-foot-two.
And no the large bush flowering Hibiscus plant is nothing more than that, a view to bring joy to the sight for mere mortals. The flowers are perfectly chiseled out of evocative red with elongated skinny styles and stigmata to attract the bees. But those tiny tongues are more like mockers, mocking the world as they “hang-out,” aren’t they? “Nah, nana, nah, nah!” No, these flowers with their bright colors are nothing more then dissatisfied, disenfranchised floral kingdom’s cast of actors that keep the world close to their saner angels. They teach us to stop looking at the stark sanity of the wretched and mull it over with the gifted cues of fairies and goblins. There is something more to that Hibiscus flower within that plant life. Isn’t there? There are gremlins amidst the colorful splendor. Indeed there is enchantment. It is a wonderland to behold. These are the actors on the stage strutting their stuff in colorful overtones, observing, sometime even laughing but always mocking our very stark, "as is" view of the world.
That stretch of green grass, with blades cut to the right length, is there to provide a softer cushion to the stepping feet, to lounge around on a summer’s day or play catch-ball or even stick-ball should the urge grab you. Or maybe not. The green chlorophyll exchanges of carbon dioxide for oxygen remains the valued asset for life’s survival on this planet. But no, these are natural canopies of great strength for the tiny little beasts that live under the green grass. These tiny beasts, the ants, worms and fleas all rework the earth to constantly feed the dynamics of mother-nature to renew more armies and even larger canopies. It is a constant rebirth beneath our feet. This is the underground economy of life that renews, reshapes and is reborn annually.
And oh the stories there are to tell when lost beneath the blades of grass. Prince Cornelius is no where to be found as Thumbelina looks for her beau in the vast green jungle where animals come to life and tiny streams serve as might rivers difficult to cross unless you have wings. Oh my the sheer magic of it all!
And oh the stories there are to tell when lost beneath the blades of grass. Prince Cornelius is no where to be found as Thumbelina looks for her beau in the vast green jungle where animals come to life and tiny streams serve as might rivers difficult to cross unless you have wings. Oh my the sheer magic of it all!
How little we know, I thought. Tinker Bell and her pixie dust do exist! This mind of a three-year old without the wink of confusion, or the nod of dissent has created a rule for the world as she sees it. There is nary a hesitation. Life is simply a game of shadows. There are actors who strut about in masks to hide their real faces and parade on the stage voicing the predetermined eloquence of written lyrical emotions. They are and yet not. But beneath it all is the vast undercurrent of thought that colors and re-colors our life that we work hard to deny. And yet, it is in that very essence of imagination that a process is born, a process to reshape our future. There is a story to tell and to this open minded beautiful child with Grace, the world has revealed its other more beautiful and powerful essence, its core of cores, its heart of hearts, its mystery of mysteries, it had unfolded its very soul of existence!
The fairy tale is indeed here for all of us. Sometime in the quiet confines of our own thoughts, when twilight alights and you let that concrete view imbue the essence of the otherworld, a change takes place that forces us to see the black and white transformed by the sprinkled hues of darkened color onto the drab and dreary into this magical kingdom. From that figment, come the spark of curiosity and a cataract of action, that changes us all. Oh for that tiny speck of imagination! Oh for that openness of the mind! Oh for the world through the filter-less, imaginative view of a three-year-old! But for that, the dimensions of ingenuity collapse into the flatter-land of this, our bleak existence.
Like the three-year-old, let your imagination soar and you might just throw some color into your own life and the lives of the rest of the world and make the future a better place for all.
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