 It's not a grave, it's a garden... There was standing room only at your memorial. If you had known that was the way it would be when you were alive, would it have made any difference to you?
I got home and finished planting my new garden plot (pictured above - I'm following Mel Bartholomew's book Square Foot Gardening and he recommends 4'x4' plots - nice squares within squares. As I had more climbing and/or tall plants than originally planned, I decided to do the same area but in a 2'x8' plot. And it looks like a grave. Considering my life and the loss there of surrounding mine, I thought it appropriate. Morbid, but appropriate.) They thought they would bury us, but didn’t realize we were seeds. -Mexican proverb Some people are saying that you did it for the attention. I don't feel one way or another about it. If you did do it for the attention, you succeeded. I've thought about you more over the past 2 weeks than I did all the years I hadn't even seen you... You had a big heart. I thought that a few days after I heard about what happened. It may be cliche, or it may be that it is true, since quite a few other people expressed the same sentiment today, talking about you, sharing memories of you. Crying over you. "I'm not ready to not be her mom," your mom said through tears. I was not a good friend to you. There was a time when I tried to be close to you, but I realized that you needed more than I had to give. You needed more than anyone had to give. I had to take care of myself - look out for myself. It may have been selfish, but how could I fix someone else when I needed to do so much work on myself? People did love you - do love you - but you really had a hard time loving yourself. You had a big heart, and with that this tremendous void within it. The only person who could fill that void was you. And you did. With a bullet. "Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more. It's contrast." -Virginia Woolf, The Hours
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 So, just in case the image header on my previous post didn't give it away, I am fully back into making 'yantras' with my photos. After a brief lapse in yantra creation (and I still need to do some tinkering in the photoshop actions department...) I've come back with some really cool images that reminded me why I became so obsessed with the yantras in the first place.
I'm not overly sure that they are 'yantras'... I use them as a meditation tool, and they do have a central focal point, but I'm not sure if there are set rules about what can be designated a 'yantra' or not... I'm almost certain there are, but I like the idea of using the images as meditation tools, and I like the word yantra so I'm going to continue calling them that until I don't anymore.  Yantra of the Ancient Skins It has been raining almost every day. The yard is loving it, looking more and more like a (desert) jungle all the time. The henbit has bit the dust, mostly, but the lamb's quarters and purslane are coming up all over the place. I ate the first few mulberries, and shared them with my husband and child. We all enjoyed them. Perhaps will be a new task to create cuttings from our quickly grown tree and plant them further away from our domicile.
I feel in a better state mentally than I was this time two weeks ago (or even less than that), though there have been some great ups and downs in my life this last week. Sigh. I've been digging a new garden plot out in the front yard, along the fence; a square-foot garden, 16 square feet for each plot, though instead of a big square 4'x4' I made mine a rectangle to better use the fence for support for the tomatoes (as I suddenly have more than I intended on planting this year). It looks like a grave. Out in the front yard. And appropriately so, for all the happenings lately. I rather like it. I hope to finish it tomorrow and then transplant and bury seeds. I'm planning on adding an additional plot of equal size in the falltime, and then one every subsequent year until we feel overwhelmed with gardens, or run out of room. The night around when my son was born was stormy and rain beat down on the roof and windows. It was exactly how I imagined the night of my son's birth would have been. (Though I don't actually know what the weather was, as I was buried deep within floors and walls of this huge building. I'm fairly certain it was a clear night, the night he arrived.) I pretended that this was the rebirth, two years later. The rain washing away any residual pain or animosity. The nights leading up to my rebirthing night were restless or full of dreams. A long, treacherous ordeal of post-apocalyptic life, always on the run, always on edge. Swimming through a vast river full of unseen horrors, trying to grasp at me as I tried to swim out of the current. Hiding from the tribe of hunters, their pelts and furs covering their vehicles and abodes. The flesh hunters. In a way, I felt better after having the dreams. Better after feeling down, down in the mud. And rightfully so. I need the lows to feel the joy of the highs. Without that distinction it is all the same feeling. Nothing. I've been reading more on the Buddhist concept of 'voidness' - and I find the current book fascinating: the Heartwood of the Bodhi Tree - though I have trouble with ignoring the senses, not letting me feel. I like to feel. I even like to feel 'bad', though sometimes it doesn't seem that way when it is happening. Perhaps that is my trap, and I am destined to go through endless cycles of death and rebirth everyday with each thought that arises... |
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