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HONORING MY MOTHER | Welcome to the farm




INDEED, the feeling of flying up like a bird or a rocket, to eventually move out from where one is rooted to or presently stuck in (as in mud), is freedom lived.

In the same way, any similar movement, skyward or not, from a stagnant location, to feel the rush of air in one’s face like a fresh expectation of things to come, be it hard concrete or a view of the clouds and the heavens, is like the perfect combination of a hammock, your favorite song and a lazy afternoon. Whatever rocks your boat.

While there may be others who regard feelings such as these as merely transitory and fleetingly-normal with living, the appreciation of sensations such as these with one’s almost-total concentration, is always a special moment; with that sleeping artist living inside all of us awakened and wide-eyed like a babe.

In common terms, this might as well be what the saying, “stop and smell the flowers” could be all about.

I have always held my utmost admiration for those people who have a positive disposition despite what life throws at them. I have known only quite a few in this lifetime, those animated but game individuals who, despite their struggles at times, always appeared as though they were just playing.

Now, there is a purpose in calling them “individuals.” It is to honor and highlight their singularity and uniqueness, their own person, amid the drab uniformity frolicking around us disguising as butterflies. In a way, this had been what I have always envied in these beautiful people, their child-like qualities which often shown through, even through tearful eyes.

In a relative sense, I once read that in old Japan, monks at wintertime would take a heated stone (or was it a piece of ember?), covering it carefully in layers of sash then wrapping it around their waist as a way to keep warm.

Up till now, I have always wondered, if the burning ember did not burn through the fabric at all. Is a childlike disposition comparable therefore to a burning ember as a weapon against life’s hard winters? In a way that is difficult for me to explain, I believe so. Alas, these flower-smelling people and these faceless monks, my special heroes, my kind of people.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my grandchild by my brother’s only son got married yesterday. Totally in a quarantine bubble that was meant to strictly impose this new normal’s protocol. While everyone may have adhered to all the rules of the time, the question remains: had the COVID atmosphere spoil the happy occasion at all?

No way. Love is a virus. It can beat anything. So, as everyone in the family group chat virtually moved in, with our social-distanced embraces and “besos” to the new couple and our addition to the clan, I likewise say, welcome to the farm.

For all of us inside our own individual bubbles, looking out and wishing to be flying off somewhere, I say welcome to the farm. Despite Covid, let us keep things funny.

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