on A Myrtle Tree

And just like that

there is a man sitting on a myrtle tree

his body is feeble but his voice is loud

He sings the same song everyday;

Woe is the man who believes

in the freedom the world promises

for no such thing has ever existed

or will ever…

Sometimes he begins to fuss and wail

for no ear cares to listen

He should have given up a while ago

yet he campaigns even vigorously

Remove the scales from your eyes

so you can see in the darkness

There is only freedom

in the arms of the son of man

Days come and months pass

Sun shines and snow breaks

A child is born and a man dies

but the man’s mouth is never shut;

Open your lips and sing his praise

the LORD of lords is alive forever

drink from the living water he provides

and let peace rule your heart till death

The kids make fun of him all day

the young men think he’s drunk on spirit

the old men think he finally broken

since his family died a while back

I sometimes sit under that myrtle tree

let his voice serenade me while I rest

lately I started thinking of the possibilities

the man may be mad, but what if he’s right?

Presence

Breath in. 5…4…3…2…one I saw a nix sitting on a branch of a fig tree, dipping her toes into the stream of water below her. creating ripples that waned and faded. She looked sad on this beautiful Armenian night, perhaps it was the shadow she carried that whispered chaos in her mind.

Breath out. 1…2..3.4 five, every living creature has a mind, and is therefore equally important. The Owl on the spitz of the old fig was not more relevant than the Nix, and my life is worth the same as hers. I wondered if she could have been sad because the presence of the moon on this night was divine and she wished she could bottle up the milky way and the falling stars, or she wasn’t mindful enough to realise she was more than the feelings she allowed to overwhelm her thoughts;

the state if mind where she wanted the night to schatter into broken shards, prick her skin so she could feel her life force… or anything really. swallow her whole and drop her off the face of the earth.

She couldn’t speak stillness to the old fig, or reach out to touch the elusive moon. The lines between her reality and her reflection were blurred by a spurring internal conflict that could be solved by a drop of presence.

On this beautiful Armenian night I crouched next to her and told her to live in the moment, exactly how it was, listening to her heart beat, not wanting more or expecting less. Every day nature weaves a balance of subtle miracles before our ever dreaming eyes. If we’re lucky, our hearts can capture every butterfly smile our irises have yet to see.