During winter everything cools down. The air becomes dry. The sun, the bears, and the human beings go into hibernation. The moon rules. The wind rules. Silence rules.
It is a time for death. It is a time for reflection. It is a time for imagination.
It is a time to rub your hands together over and over until you have warmth.
It is a time when the world slows and tiptoes.
The wind whispers things long forgotten.
And you do everything to keep the little fire alive inside you.
The creek is not necessarily a place to relax, nor is it a place for big thrills. You can walk along a creek because the water remains at, or slightly above, the ankles. You can see the organisms that live beneath the water because the water is clear and transparent. You can sit on a rock in the middle of a creek without fear of being swept away. And since the creek is made up of fresh water, you can even nourish yourself with it.
The creek provides the right amount of stimuli and variety. There is movement and flow of water but it never overpowers, like a waterfall, or rages, like the ocean at night. When visiting an ocean or a waterfall, the main attraction are precisely those bodies of water—the ocean and the waterfall. But when visiting a creek, there is no main attraction. There are rocks, there are trees, there are fish, there is grass, there are mountains. And there is a soft trickling flow of water in the background.
At the ocean, especially at night, the waves are so loud that you cannot hear your own thoughts. At a lake, life is too quiet, too still, so that your thoughts seem to be louder. But at the creek, you find a perfect balance between your physical body and your wandering mind. It is the place to bring your curious self, your pondering self, your somatic self, your full and centered self.
A caterpillar is born unaware of all the wonderful surprises its life will have. It is born at the bottom of the food chain and lives the first stage of its life simply surviving. It crawls on the forest floor, dodging birds, beetles and anything wanting to devour it. The highest point it can reach in the physical plane is the top of a tree, and to do that it must have patience (inch by inch, slowly but steadily).
Whereas most animals are born to master a skill (lions must master hunting to survive and beavers must master building a dam to do the same) a caterpillar is born to evolve. The main event in a caterpillar’s life is the metamorphosis it will undergo—the once in a lifetime event that will change its life forever (and for the better).
A caterpillar will go from being a prey to all animals to being the source of aesthetic pleasure to humans. It will go from crawling on its tiny, sluggish legs to floating in the air with its extravagant wings for all to enjoy and appreciate. Even its palate will change. It will go from eating plain leaves to drinking sweet nectar. By the end of its life, it will know two completely different worlds— that of the earth and that of the skies. It will go from interacting with worms and ants to interacting with birds and bees. It will know what it means to be confined to one place and then having the whole world suddenly open up because it now has wings to go anywhere it pleases.
What other animal exists that undergoes such a drastic change in its life? A tadpole may physically transform into a frog, but in what other ways does it evolve?
The broad range of life experience makes the caterpillar beautiful, the fact that it seeks out its own transformation makes it admirable, and the fact that its change is so drastic is what makes it the epitome of hope.
It is the color of the ocean and the color of the sky—the depth of emotion and the vastness of thought. Clouds and waves. Way up high and way down low. It is flying and swimming, or sometimes, soaring then drowning.
It is found in your sleeping dreams, but also in your waking ones. It is duality and consciousness. Like when you consciously decide to either put on your feeling cap or your thinking cap, as opposed to Red, which represents force, reflex, and involuntary action.
Blue is quietly strong.
It can be sadness or serenity, depending on its shade. It is all forms of water and it is the visible veins under your skin—it is life. And it nourishes, and it soothes, and cools, and calms.
Gentle but powerful. Blue is purpose, clarity and infiniteness.
There was a grey velvet couch in the center of the living room. It talked. It thought. It felt. It even gave advice.
When someone new walked into the living room, the couch would say, “Psst. Come here. I’ve got something to show you.”
Most people went to the living room, specifically, to see the couch. They wanted the couch to tell them things about themselves. Sometimes the people stood in line outside the house to wait for a chance to talk with the couch for a few minutes. Soon the owner of the house began charging people $5 to have a conversation with the couch. The only rule was that one had to show respect to the couch. Treat it like a human. And most importantly, never sit on it. The couch was not a couch. It was not something for one’s comfort. It was the fountain of wisdom. And it expected for people to treat it as so.
A new woman walked into the house one day, with the intention of mocking the grey couch.
“What should I do about my dilemma?” she chuckled. “Enlighten me,” she said, blowing cigarette smoke straight onto the couch. Right away, the couch knew what the woman was up to, and its single cushion became stiff.
The woman walked over to the grey couch and sat on it, taking up all its space. There wasn’t one part of her body that did not touch the couch. The couch’s grey velvet turned into coarse fiber, and then red and orange spots began forming on the cushion. In the blink of an eye, the couch swallowed the lady whole. She was no more.
When two investigators came into the house the next morning, they stood in the middle of the living room and looked around the charcoaled room. It was empty except for the burnt couch and the woman’s body, which was still hot to the touch. The first investigator ruled it an accident. The position of the woman’s body–with the hands resting on the arms of the couch, her feet not touching the ground, and her head tilted back, as if getting a pleasant massage– indicated she was comfortably asleep when the incident happened. The woman lit a cigarette and accidentally fell asleep to the soothing feel of the velvet couch. The second investigator, who was 20 years older, said no. This was no accident. The lady should never have been near the couch in the first place. There would be a full investigation. What did she do? Why would anyone want to destroy such a brilliant couch?
What happens to a swallowed Want?
Does it wallow in the hallow caves of your heart?
Or does it slide down into your belly?
And dissolve into –Deadly–
Acid.
Rain.
Does it get absorbed into a vein
And drift its way up to your brain,
Contaminating every thought?
(The live ones, the dormant ones, the future ones…)
When it is swallowed,
Does a remnant remain on your tongue?
And gradually gurgle boiling bubbles
Erupting into fiery lava
Burning anyone in its way?
In the humid darkness of your living body,
What happens to a swallowed Want?
Does it inform?
Or does it transform?
Does a Want want?
And if so, what does it want?
To be followed?
Or simply not be swallowed?
Every month she comes
Sometimes with no warning
Sometimes in long
Prolonged
Waves
Sometimes she is dense
Liquorice red
Thick,
Heavy,
Heated,
Heaving, “I’m. Coming”
(out)
Heavenly
Healthfulness.
Sometimes
She pretends to be gone.
Done.
But makes her last appearance
In brick red
“I’m not done with you woman.”
And her coming
Leaves you helpless
A feather falls on your bare chest
Barely sensed
Floats up your neck
Teeny tingles
Tousle trembling goosebump hairs
In a silver daze,
It lands on your lips
Blow it to the sky
(with a barely there breath)
A feather is easily lost
In directionless wind
As in blowing your lungs into another
Misplaced.
Mishandled.
Mistreated.
Mistaken as Useless
“Miss, what is your use?”
Swooshing side
to side
Twirling left-
then right-
She peeps,
“A feather is born to tickle
Just grab me from the Sky”
The world rages. Flowers keep blooming.
My stomach knows things I don’t.
ROOT OF ROOTS 