From the Pipe-Dream Whisperer

“Nature is not a place to visit.

It is home.”

~ Gary Snyder

 
 
So says the bamboo-framed glass board in the bamboo-framed classroom. In blue ink.

The teacher in cargo shorts and light blue polo shirt. Who probably wrote it.

 
My mother’s voice through her uterine walls.

My Mother’s voice.

“… It is home.” In blue ink.

In blue vibrations of my amniotic sac.

 
The doctor-guest speaker, who carried a goodies-filled suitcase and didn’t want to be formal, sat with the six year-olds like a story-teller.

 
Four things.

 
The intelligence of my half-grown peanut-sized brain to pick up my mother’s troubled sighs.

The incredible resilience of my fluid airbag.

The indomitable beating of my little heart.

Of my young thumb-sized heart.

 
Look across the room. If you can get to just one person. Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

“… Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

 
Slideshow.

Joint little hands around the world.

Unconscious hopeful emotions.

Joint little fingers clenched around the placentaic sense of my mother’s love.

Unconscious of hopeful emotions.

 
One person.

 
Oohs. Claps. Thank yous and smiles.

Door-less bamboo-framed classrooms. Pathway made of rocks.

Uncompromised trees. Irrepressible scent of manure. Non-soundproofed chirping of insects. Uncovered eyes of earth mounds.

 
The universe has demanded my attention.

My hope-unconscious attention.

 
But I’m not ready.

 
 
Not ready.

When the universe has demanded my presence.

My slimy, umbilical cord-ed, half-conscious presence.

 
“… It is time.” In blue vibrations of where-has-it-gone?

My mother’s voice. Through the lit end of a vigorously dilating tunnel.

 
Suddenly a person.

Reporting for life duty.

By the intelligence of my upside-down fist-sized brain. The resilience of my mother’s strands of fibromuscular tubular tract. The indomitable beating of our hearts. Our young novice hearts.

 
Not ready. Readied.

 
 
… Earth mounds. Pathway made of rocks. A Bali starling bird.

Suddenly a wasp.

A mustard yellow-bottomed wasp. Heedfully passing – fly walking? (two unused legs, upright-posture floating)

– on an invisible crossroad.

An unspoken mutual conception.

Because, one civilization.

 
The freedom-aspiring Bali starling birds. The rescue-campaigning orangutans. The attorney-seeking tarsiers.

The trees, hacked bloodless at their legs. The ocean, overfed with over-processed leftover diet plan. The fungi, single-handedly healing in their first-aid camp.

The fetuses that grow behind uterine walls. The little people that grow with little knowns. The humans that grow a memory loss. Of their mothers. Of their Mother.

 
 
… The universe has demanded my attention.

My palm-sweating, stomach-queasy, helplessly-conscious attention.

Of no more ‘them-and-us‘s.

 
“…It is time.”

My Mother’s voice.

 
Through the intelligence of a pipe-dream whisperer doctor. The indomitable spirit of an eager 14-year-old boy. The indomitable springtime spirit of joint little hands around the world. The gut-wrenching resilience of the mercilessly defiled ground which they – we – are standing on.

 
Hope. Regrown.

Because of one person.

Heart. Strong.

Because we are all that close.

Home. Common.

We’ve forgotten we belong. To live for.

 
 
Suddenly one queasy-stomached, belly-twisted person,

With an intelligent cantaloupe-sized brain. The most resilient-bodied of a Mother. An indomitable beating heart. An indomitable newborn fighting heart,

Readied.

Reporting for Life duty. Right here. At Home.

 
 
Tya

 
photoshd.wordpress.com

 
 

“The sun shines not on us, but in us. The rivers flow not past, but through us, thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing.”

~ John Muir

 
 
Written in response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Fight or Flight on November 26, 2012, a meeting with Dr. Alicia Kennedy from the Jane Goodall Institute Australia and Dr. Ating from Dr. Ating Foundation at Green School Bali on November 22, 2012, and the message of Jane Goodall on March, 2002.

I don’t know if that’s ‘Free’, to me,

 
 
For some, a sense of being Free

is that of roaming in the open air carelessly,

aimlessly, because-it-doesn’t-matterly

 
Of running on bare feet, across a white sandy beach,

against the softly-blowing wind

 
Of leaping off a cliff, thirty-feet above the sea,

diving into blue ocean cool that washes off tropical heat..

 
… that must be Free

 
 
Maybe.

 
 
I don’t know if that’s Free,

to me,

or a temporary release from a metropolist routine

 
If that’s Free,

to me,

or mere pumping adrenaline, rushing dopamine, from a kind of life not often lived

 
Like paragliding, wild-berry picking, star-gazing,

dragonfly-catching, being okay with dying

 
 
Funnily, to me, what I know about Free,

surely,

I find behind pink-painted walls that were meant to be peach

 
 
Where a flat sponge cake from egg whites half-beat is still served on royal tiers

Where coffee is best half-warm because somebody has let the boiled water cool chatting

 
Because every corner of a room is an ingredient for a good talk recipe

For the best potpourri of honest silences, peaceful disagrees and harmless mockeries

 

You see, to let imperfections be seen, to remain guarded as beauty is,

to me,

Free

 
Where hearts are laid down carefully,

the broken, the healing, the failed-to-be-concealed

 
Where faith, or not, in God is not left out of grace-saying

even when served half-chilled

 
And nobody cares if the glass is half full or empty

as much as that someone’s INTJ, ENFP, ESFJ, ISTP, INTP, INFP or XXXP

Because having strong opinions is not nearly as important as holding up a firm identity

 

To know who one is, to be recognized for that is,

to me,

Free

 
Imagine where heads and feet lazily meet

on a hand-me-down embroidered couch covered with worn-out sheets

Full of dry stains of spilled wine from bouncing over someone’s new promise ring

or raging over another’s news of disloyalty

Atop cushions that are warmly dented from accommodating tear-drying,

light hand-touching, impromptu counseling over ice cream

 

Now the right to feel completely, the right to truly be is,

to me,

Free

 
 
Behind pink-painted walls that are decorated every section differently to honor diversity

That preserve smudges from pushed out chairs making space for those inside joke assemblies

That echo our distinct sounds of laughter and merge them into a timeless symphony,

Are eyes that see only the perfect shade of peach

Are live portraits of being just as we should be

 

You see, to love unconditionally, to be loved without boundaries is,

simply,

Free

 
 

 
 
Tya