Serving the King
The pace of life for the last little while has held me close to the surface. I have ridden the swift currents with all my appendages tucked in close, offering the least resistance, letting myself be carried along by the demands of a long series of events, bringing to each moment what the moment called for. And then they came to an end, all the things that had been needing me. The current turned some other way and tossed me up onto a small damp beach at the river's bend. And there I sat, tight as a nut, and sodden.
It was Saturday. There was no to-do list. No company. No deadline. There were plenty of things that could be done, but no one critical thing. Nothing that demanded doing. I was free to choose. But I had no recollection of what I did with myself when I found myself at home, or why, or how. It had been that long. I sat in my seat in the kitchen and told myself I wouldn't move from there until I knew what I wanted to do. What I wanted. In reaction to my ownself. Where did I want to go from there?
I looked out the window through the un-light of the shadowless day. Watched a mocking bird chase two jays around the dogwood tree. Let the recent days drop out of me in fat splatters on the page. Days and days un-doing, un-ravelling, coming un-done. Still there I sat, a lumpish thing without momentum.
So babe, I said to myself after several cups of tea, What do you want to DO with your life?
The answer came blushing and certain as a flower blooming: I want to Write. But you already know that.
Yes. I know that. Ok, so what if you start to act like that? What if you started to DO that?
There are other things too.
What other things?
Gardening. And Coding.
Ok.
You understand that I use these terms broadly. Not narrowly.
Explain.
By Writing I mean all things to do with dreaming and the spirit. And the bridging of the spiritual and the physical worlds. Making manifest. The tonic of story. The alchemy of language.
And by Gardening I mean tending things beyond my control. Slow and non-verbal things. Miraculous things. Earth things. Also cooking and eating. Being physical and living in community.
And by Coding I mean building things, constructing tools. Solving problems.
Ok. Got it. Writing. Gardening. Coding.
But Writing comes first. Writing is King.
Writing is King. Gardening is Queen. And Coding is Prime Minister.
Yes. But the trouble is, Coding is a bully.
Coding doesn't serve the King?
Not very well. The King is not very attentive, not assertive at all. Coding is much more energetic. Much more forceful. And of course the army answers to him. Coding pretty much does as he pleases.
Ok. Well let's change that then. Coding can't be Prime Minister anymore. He will be your Henchman. He will serve the greater good.
Who will make him do that?
The Prime Minister.
And who will be the Prime Minister?
I will.
Oh. And who are you?
I am the one who loves you.
Oh, well, that's a comfort.
Ok. So you need to start serving your king and your queen. How will you do that?
I could take the time, after dinner, when Watt's watching tv. I could go into Gus's room and close the door and sit at his little desk there and write. A couple of hours every night. Craft something. I could begin there.
That sounds like a good place to start. And what about your queen?
I will take up walking for lunch again. And maybe Watt will come with me, or maybe he won't. But I could go out and take my camera, and move my body through space and witness the place where I live.
A fine plan. Most excellent. So shall it be done.
~
I had very quick strong images of the personages of Gardening and Coding. She with her feet in the dirt, basket on her hip and staff in hand, hair loose in the wind. Coding is hunched and sniffling, poor creature. Mole-like. Strong but blind.
But Writing I couldn't see at all until this morning, when I saw two images.
One a figure with arms spread opening up the chest. The right hand angled down through a mirror into the dark behind it. The left hand reaching up skyward and blooming into a big bunch of red flowers, dropping petals on people standing below. One staring intently at the petal that had dropped into her open palm. Another looking up through the shower toward the bouquet itself. The force was coming from the darkness behind the mirror in through one hand and up through the other to bloom out in the air.
The other image I got was a man embracing a huge clod of dirt, an armful of dirt. And that embrace sent light from his arms into the earth and sparked the growth of delicate green shoots. Alchemical. Transformative.
My King.
