The Mountain

Camping by Peaceweavers lake, 6/18/2016, Bath, NY

Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes; Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth
                                                                                                                                          --Richard II, WS

We are such things that kings and queens are made of, here with our buoyant democracy; our fiefdoms know no bounds. Wanting and desire rule our days from far and wide. We are all there is, astride a mountain of accumulation. A climate controlled clan, weapons apparent, besmirched with houses on wheels belching petroleum products like there was no issue. Our garbage piles high each day as we hurl ourselves into an infinity that is vastly shrinking. Must have, must have, must have. These petty jealousies, inbred necessities--recycling cannot keep up with it. We spoil ourselves into a new disaster. Those who had not, now must acquire all, not marking what insidious disturbances loam on the ever diminishing horizon. We must get there, we must get there, but what is the destination? A dried up flapjack on the back burner. Such sweetness shall surely bring bad tidings and a bitter end.

On the green mountain, though, past Bath, remembered for ancestral foundations from the common era with a name extending far into history. Peace is woven into trench like circles. Water is pristine and we dress ourselves in rightly possibilities. A fast, you say, a cleanse from the good earth. A time for shedding excess baggage and ravenous appetites. A steaming, you say, strong voices of natives, the aboriginal calling, allow us to submit to the golden sweat, purging the hunger for more and more and more. Underneath our daily waste, the self emerges. A cleaner machine of human proportions, unstained by ownership and other conglomerate urges. Unsullied, we wonder what have we done? In the doing, the leaning towards stressful acts lessens. One stops the cycle, termites on the lands look so brutal. Digestion changes. We want something different. Not always able to stick to the new consciousness, we consider our actions as contributing to the ongoing calamity. In short, we lessen our hold on this strangled earth.

Here there is such loving, almost too dramatic or believable. As time passes and the detoxification repositions other labels, we begin to join the soft heart of the non intrusive way. Distinctly changed, these other passions shift shape. Not so much the pushing and shoving for position but consideration for others. The self stands by the door ashamed of its disregard. Clean blue skies, the stuff under blank asphalt, grows on the spirit. Our choices no longer mindless. We come to a better agreement and reflection persists round a clear head. This ritual connects to early days. We are spawned from beasts, groomed in flight or fight. No matter though, our intellect can follow the cleaned vessel. We are more than rough animal. Our persistence can alter the end of days.