The sickle was long-stemmed. Corrosively blackened by cyclical decades of rice harvest tillage, its austerity hinted at faithfulness to perform. The countless hands who held this tool before me probably fed hundreds of families in their labor. Now was my turn to sweat and toil for this community in rural Thailand. The food forest tasked had given way to negligence, so we worked to copse and pollard undesired growth on the trees and the ground floor hindering growth.
There was an Aussie, a fellow volunteer, from a family who raised groves of citrus varietals. He had a beautiful intuitive temperament capable of depth and consideration, but keen to an air of joyful blithe. We talked about his family’s homestead, where he had just spent the greater of two weeks pruning trees out on the property, at times spending over any hour on a single tree. I was surprised at the complexity of the approach and methodology. Every cut carried serious reprocussions. The blooms, tiped after a harvest would increase the following seasons yield. Cuts in the midline of stems caused more vegetative growth, while base cuts encouraged a more lateral spread of canopy. Your intentions specied the tactics and anticipated results dictated procedure. In sickness and cists of infestions, the call for sacrifices had to made. Weight distribution of limbs would lead to further immolation of profitable blossoms to extend the trees life.
Calculated. Attentive. Purposeful.
My eyelids moistened softly and silently. At least they did then. They’re dry now.
A once anthematic call, essentially and subliminally addressing the growth of my inner being; my heart. The trimmings and allowances and proselytizing of my soulscape. I don’t need a cutting of doubt, of branches that bear no fruit: I need warmth to fall into the unceratinty.
An existential tinge and pantheist embrace of a reality void a directly personal deity, I hurt not to be moved by that intimate, divine touch. The tainted temples of elitists and carnivals of church-ianity proclaiming to have the community your soul craves. Archaic imagery and hedonistic infused vernacular of this Western monotheistic religion are chokingly obtrusive to my being. I can no longer breathe. I struggle to even function and operate in the dogma and rhetoric of a power seeking institution where my faith is unmerited and unwarranted in its questioning. To be a seeker, is to have a cheap faith. To live in ambiguity and the gray of the ethereal is heretical and pitied in degradation.
I’m bound. In the only language I know, in familiarity and inauthenticity, to desrcibe a Love found in the act ineffable, who’s presence is inexorable. Every faculty of my being wants to stand in defiance and enmity. Love defies reason.
When did it need to make sense?