Hummingbird Woman

8.4.17 Red Galactic Skywalker

I confess, in the garden in the company of zinnias, butterflies, bumble bees, silvery mottled squash leaves grown enormous, cucumbers dangling from the trellis with bright yellow flowers jewelling the vines, in the garden I receive great pleasure. Pleasure such that I prefer the company of those in the garden to that of humans. The garden has a rhythm that is orderly yet free, it exists in a state of reciprocity that is grounding to the mind, the heart, the body, and spirit. Breathing in scents, here is mint freshly sprung and brushed against clearly mint. Over here is anise hyssop, only now bearing lavender buttons unopened to flower, chewing releases both the taste and scent that it holds; honestly anise. No mixed signals, everything is how it is. Zinnias with red and magenta and orange and salmon cushion tops, so plump and comfortable pop their heads out and butterflies flock to them, flittering from top to top.

Today a lone bumblebee behaved out of order. Usually I’ll weed with bumblebees buzzing about around and above me where I kneel by borage or mint and they go on with their busyness. There is barely any borage this year, and one bumblebee began to buzz around Layla unusually persistence. It could be her flailing hands and shrieks and motions sent out of order alarm bells on airwaves and so it responded in kind. She fled and it buzzed around me until I went to the front garden portion, when I returned a moment later it was back to doing what it had been before with the other bumblebees. The rhythm restored. I believe when an imbalance emits in a natural place where harmony prevails, the source of the discord is ‘checked out’ or chased away!

All this shows how life functions in a way that aspires toward success and accord. Yet in human company the scents are mixed that people emit, their words are unclear and one wonders at what their meaning is, if they even know themselves? Mixed signals, mixed scents, mixed words, mixed body language, bland facial expressions with shifting eyes that make little contact; what’s going on in there? Everything sensed leads to the feeling of imbalances, whether thoughts and words are in discord, or body and feelings, or some combination of these, the prevailing sense is often one of perceiving imbalance.

Once I was unclear as to whether these perceptions were my own projections, but as I ground deeper into the garden of my heart and soul, I’m clear that I perceive an imbalance of which I am not the source. What causes the imbalance I know not, what I’m curious about is how it is that many humans are unaware of their imbalances, and often speak in ways that seek to better, improve, fix, shed light on social problems that they have identified without first rectifying themselves. Perhaps they shunt outward onto society, community, and culture at large what are to them obvious external problems that are ‘greater than themselves’ rather than looking immediately within to begin . . . for clearly, when one individual, as this bumblebee did, brings himself into harmony, then that one vibration buzzes out into the whole of culture, community, and society, into the whole garden, and affects it accordingly. When this is done, the garden is one individual rythym restored into balance greater than before, and when each individual does this sort of work . . . then people no longer have to talk about fixing this and improving that and championing this cause and resisting that because it they enter a self-generating flow that continuously aspires toward harmony; such is a reciprocal state of being with and part of life.

In this condition I sit outside and while I’m writing a pretty little Hummingbird lady comes thrumming toward me. She hovers a foot away infront of my face and opens her wings to show her white chest, then she comes closer and closer until I need no camera, no zoom lens to gaze into her eyes shining above that long thin beak coming closer until we are nose to nose and I wonder whether she’ll kiss me on the cheek while I behold her through crosseyes smiling gladly. She turns and flies elegantly up into the boughs of the apple tree, and I feel for a moment touched, for a moment I am Hummingbird Woman, and my heart hums under my skin, hums in my chest, hums and thrums for I hear hummingbirds before they fly by now, I hear them as they wing unseen, I anticipate and sense their presence, and their thrumming hums I return though I do not have wings with which to fly into the boughs of an apple tree.

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