Quince Doesn’t Mind the Cold

Perhaps this is why she moved north long before peach and apricot, apple and pear, or maybe the monks who carried her along were big on thorns, blood and blooms. Symbolism can be more useful than tastiness! Good to know.
The trick is not to bloom all at once, but to be ready, so when the sun does shine, you can, too.

Of Apricots and Organic Time

She’s a lovely one, Apricot.

She lures me. I have a body that is eager to be lured.

The blossoms are so pretty and smell so sweet. Finding fruit, and caring for it, is a task not done all at once.

 

It’s not that I am the domesticated one, or that Apricot is. We are in this together.

 

Well, plus Mme. Robin.

Yes.

Water is the Speech of the Earth

It is commonly said that water reflects light. It’s a great observation.

However, water also gives light a place to reveal itself. That is an older observation, but no less lucid.

During this process, water reveals itself as the hidden body behind the light. This organic twinning is what is called nature.

It is the earth speaking. Human bodies fit into it in the same way.

 

Placenta of The Earth

Every red osier dogwood is a placenta.

It streams with blood into the sky …

… or it catches the sky, and brings it to you.

Traditionally in this country it was used to control pregnancy and to stop bleeding after childbirth. That’s quite likely because it catches the seeds from these cattails, which are male (top) and female (below) flowers in one.

It holds them in the air for a later time, or dries them out, rather than allowing them to enter water …

… and carry the sun into it.

It stands apart from the two worlds.

It is at balance with earth and sky.

It is a screen of nerves, or blood, in the Earth’s mind, or body.

They are the same thing, and so are you: the one that is two, and still one, and still many.

This is the blood.

The red sea in your veins is no different. Rather than a metaphor, like this…

“The red of the dogwood is like the red of my blood, and the patterns of it are like the arteries in my eye.”

… there is this instead:

The complexities of the world are written here. We may read them, with minds built out of this same blood. If put in words, they might be reducible to something like this:

Blood flows through the dogwood and my eye, my heart, and my hand.

Ah, the heart, dear thing. Sure, it’s in the chest, but it’s also here, simultaneously:

Red Hill, John Day

It’s good to remember, of course, that this blood is also the screen of nerves in the mind. Perhaps you can see the thoughts collecting on neural points of gravity and tension below?

That is also blood. This is sacred medicine. It is not a metaphor, and it is not a unity broken apart into body and mind, earth and sky, thought and feeling, or anything else. It is as unified as light. Our ancestors didn’t learn to read the world by trial and error. They lived it.

Perhaps you see how words direct our thoughts away from our knowledge? It’s not that

it’s as unified as light.

Rather, dogwood and light are one.

More clearly: dogwood, light, blood, mind, water, heart, birth, water, conception and life are one.

In this form, in this holding up, the sun speaks. It becomes offering. Well, it was all along, but we reach out to it, we respond to the sun’s hand with our own.

There is no end to the listening, which is the mirror of the speech. Yes, the hand listens.

Yes, the hand teaches, and speaks. Yes, the mind is a hand.

Yes, the hand is a mind.

Puddinhead Mountain Wakes

In the valley that raised me and gave me my children, the old volcanic country of the Similkameen, filled with the gravel glaciers gouged out of the Okanagan to the east, the mountains are the sky, and a form of weather.

This is the crest of Puddinhead Mountain at sunbreak this morning. If you’re from the prairies, you might be forgiven for wondering what all this rock is doing in the way of the sky, but if you’re from here you know: this is the sky. And it is breathing.

To watch it, you stand on a river of stones some 350 metres deep.

To climb the mountain is to enter the sky country, the Seeahpoo, the country of sight.

I met a badger on this mountain when I was twelve years old. This is not my spirit mountain, though. That’s a little to the south, but this is close, and she is waking with the year…

…and me with her. Who on earth mis-named her Puddinhead, and why? Does anyone know?

 

More Than Ground Cover

When the weather is cool, spring is what you make of it.
The red oregon grape leaves among the poison ivy berries I found growing along Kalamalka Lake, are attracting warm light, invisible to my eye, while the yellow berries of the poison ivy (a form of cashew) keep humans and other predators out, even while signalling their presence to birds, who survive the spring partly because of this selection. As a result, both species are able to spread and take in more of the spring, effectively intensifying it — for all.

Okanagan Spring Colours

Rose, dogwood and grass have recorded the winter sun and now, as that sun gives over to a spring one, release that knowledge. With this wisdom of grey, red and yellow the year begins.p1500354

Softly.

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Okanagan colours are always soft, as they shine through a nearly waterless sky, in a valley that focusses the sun as a lens. It is a pleasure to experience two seasons at once.