17 July 2018 9.32 a.m.
If you start your day with oil and vinegar, you’re a salad.
That’s obvious. Mix of so many things. Human. Animal. Angel. Unknown entity. Made up mainly of greens. In a forever process of growing. Unripe. Hard. Not sweet and soft and gentle and mellow and fragrant with delicate perfumes and holding wise kernels of laetril = all-healing wisdom. Those pits are usually spat out, unless they were previously removed. Pitilessly. Pitifully. By a pit of ignorance. Who survives by constant pit stops with e-world mechanics, helpfully ever ready. Via courses signed up for. Via YouTube.
The vibes of their tune-ups and oil changes, their quick fix with a spare part (second-hand, first hand would be configuring it yourself!) get you quickly back into running order. Good as gold. As good as the octane purity of the thoughts and feelings you use as your fuel.
Be yourself, says Hub. I’m trying. But it’s an awful lot to hold together: woman, wife, stepmother, step-grandmother, sister, sister-in-law, housewife, writer, poet, friend, manager, gardener, more relatives: member of families, groups and associations, watcher of the world, inner and outer, child of heaven and earth. If each of those ingredients asked for the same thing, it would be easy. They clamor a cacophony of wants and needs.
I guess it’s easier for Hub. His call is continuity and clarity. Easy. He is Virgo. I am a Capricorn goat climbing up every tree in sight for the juiciest leaves on top, beyond the reach of my tongue. That’s why I thought growing a bunch of tongues was the thing to do: German, Spanish, French, English. It was a great choice. Got me to visit and nibble at all sorts of trees all over the world. From birch trees bent by a snowstorm to towering Baobabs slicing the white-hot sun.
Till my heart whispered: skip this! Skip that! I didn’t. It did the skipping for me. I realized I had to act as a skipper who knows when it’s time to anchor. Now I’m happily grazing on the bottom rung of just one tongue, the last one mentioned. Delighted by its rich, juicy, fragrant wealth. Its soul-nourishing layers of meanings. Its sparkling soundscapes. Its forever open-endedness. Its unlimited potential for frying my imaginings into bits of edibility. That’s what I lull myself into hoping for. Whatever the result, whatever pips come out, I’m in love, anyway, however things stand.
One thought about the anchor. To really relax, free of any concern, the cutting-all-edges-off advice is: Let go, let God. It’s trending for spiritual surfers. Use it as your mantra, they counsel. Try it. I did. The first two syllables with the light-hearted, loving “L”s and the gentle, unpretentious “e”s fades into the background as you keep repeating, the guttural “g” and “G” takes over, gets more and more gorgeously powerful, and the two “O”s start rolling like on a Cosmic racetrack—believe me, when only those second syllables roll, it gets scary.
Oh. I forgot to down my hot lemon juice. Time for sweeping carob leaves and having breakfast.