Aug. 11, 2016, morning journal notes. Sitting under grape vines in the arbor. Already summer flirts with autumn, courting with cooler mornings, boldly coiffed clouds, sweet showers, and the strong perfume of scented breezes.
Last evening, the crickets; how do they play those scratchy violins all night long? I wonder, did their mates enjoy their love songs?
And if I had not been outside last night, to hear them in the dark of a summer evening, would the cricket songs have serenaded the night? The crescent butter moon shine above the pine tree? I believe so — their existence, crickets and moon and more, their sight and sound, do not depend on me to hear or see them. That is the beauty and flow of nature, this hymn of the universe. The hymn I passionately adore, revere, and love. Adore because every creature in nature is a warrior, one who is not afraid to live true to oneself, yet not arrogantly narcissistic nor selfish. I revere them because in their essence they teach us a lesson of interdependence and detachment; if so self-conscious would the cricket dare sing such a raspy song? The moon show off? And love, as I hold an affection for their beauty, simplicity, and consistency of their natural world.
In the arbor and under these vines I see how rogue and self asserted the vines with canes stretch out new growth wherever they find purchase; those thread-thin green tendrils, as if they have eyes in their ends, seek out and lasso, then curl around any wire or plant or thing, to clasp to tightly in green curls, thus giving the cane a strength and hand hold to grow forward.
I know I should organize and control the growth pattern of the new wild canes but a caring search within finds me listening to a chirping voice that tells me to let the canes grow where they want and be wild in their own song. Amen. Chirp on crickets, I’ll be listening for you tonight.