Just some nature inspired prose.

I step outside and take a deep breath.

I notice petals falling and they're swept away.

Oh, how this world is beautiful in such decay.

My lungs want to breathe with a feverish appetite. I am unable to swallow with so much beauty in sight. My limbs grow taller as the wind tickles the insides of my fingers. I could fly and feel infinite, if it weren't for the stones tied to my feet.

I'm lying on grass that is made up of magic colors.

It's more meaningful than the man-made machines making mass material.

Maybe. It might be.

I'm wearing a paper crown. I'm the ruler of my world.

But I cannot capture this landscape view as it sows itself into my gown.

I really could eat this poetry and still not be full. I'm thinking too much - then I feel the pull.

This tree is too beautiful to pass up the moment.

But I'm counting down the ticks of the clock, and time is (money) of the essence.

The day is one thousand horses storming through a field.

And I am just a warrior fighting without a shield.

I'm being swept away.

I spent a good fifteen minutes lying on the grass in the sun.

Lo and behold, a rather fragmented poem appeared.

However, I still didn't get a tan...

I have opened my eyes halfway and given

Myself over to the     air wind    feeling
You're not watching me sleep, beauty.
I can squirm in these fabrics or
Slowly swallow this sunny scene.            Solace.
I've made it so. Made it so I can breathe
You in.

Closing my eyes, I can see the (our) world.
There's a mixture of color being weaved through
This darkness. We are bitter, bothersome, boring
Brutes that bite the bones of the burning bush.
I don't know how this rat race began.

Shallow breaths, and my body heaves.
This kind of life is tethered to the trees
It is shining in and through the leaves.

It's not capable of being bottled or
Physically swallowed in our usual way. This
Cannot be capsuled to create a counterfeit calm.
It can only be felt, experienced, so you can

Drift                                                 away.

Time does not exist, although it calls my name.
I heed the call; hanging my head in shame.

I stand up, clambering to my shaking feet
And sway, softly sweeping away the grass
That has laid to rest upon my shell of clothes.
Returning, I punch my name into the clock
Because this is how the sad story goes.

Rejuvination.

So, since my most recent near death experience(s), I have been moving through phases of thought leading me to concern, and then through apathy, and back to concern again. My thought patterns have been vivid and I am fluidly painting pictures of my life within my mind.

The writing that I have been scribbling has been taking many different forms over the past couple of weeks. Due to the back and forth stamina I have been creating for myself, I've been somewhat unstable with my words. I have written a collection of poetry/prose over a period of time. It has taken me a while to get these typed up, but now that I have, I am going to take you on a journey through my so-called (existential) crisis.

Destruction is an inevitable idea. Sooner or later everything reverts back to what once was. Each concrete idea stems from something intangible. In one of my classes last semester, my professor focused on the idea of things coming apart, decomposing, so on and so forth. We did some studying of Don McKay's poetry - and I was lucky enough to have a professor that knew him personally. She told us about his phase of poetry that told the untold - explaining the destruction of things already created. He obsessed over small objects like tools in his garage. These tools, although concrete items, will eventually fray apart into the materials that they used to be. Metal rusts, wood rots, people die, and the world spins madly on.

"In a poem, how does language start to undo itself, fray back into air, lean towards wilderness, towards not speaking?".

Through the accounts of terrible mishaps I can now add to my life story, I've been picking up on the destruction and decay of the world around me. While this probably comes across as a tad on the depressing side, I only have the hope of opening up your eyes to the beauty of this frailty we call life. There's one more thing I need to touch upon - the continuous effort of the Earth. Yes, these things decay, and maybe they are no longer what they once were; but the world has not ended as we know it. Something new can be created from the dust of a rotten piece of wood. Plants can pine their way through a compost heap.

After the catastrophe of my car catching fire and losing all my material possessions, I began pondering. It's just stuff. I lost my things, but I did not lose my life. Stemming from this situation, I realized that even though my "life" as I knew it had been destroyed, I was given a chance to start over. While it is a bit devastating (and expensive) to have to replace your wardrobe, art supplies, coat, shoes, and computer - it is also therapeutic. I shed my skin, along with it I shed a lot of memories. Some were good, and some were bad, but it gave me the realization that I need to move forward; start anew.

A little while after this took place, I was walking through the rose garden. The roses are now on their way out of season and slowly dropping. I sat down on the bench in the rose maze, and looked around. At first I was saddened by this beauty being ended - when I realized that the demise is making room for something else to take place. These roses come alive every year. While it may not be the exact same flower that buds, it is the same stem and plant. Each year a new rose will creep its way into a short existence. It falters a bit during rain storms. It thrives in sunlight. It shrivels in too much heat. Then it drops off, and finds its way back to a simple non-existence, making room for a fresh start. Every pretty, peaceful petal is recycled and reused.

After this, I began to spend my time wandering the gardens and paying closer attention to the destruction and re-birth of the plants. When one section of our garden ends, another begins. Each territory is aptly timed to begin a new cycle at the end of another. Our lilies are blooming brightly in lieu of the punctual ending of roses. Drop one thing, and pick up another. Lose all your possessions, and gain a new outlook. Allow it all to fray apart, so that it may begin as something else. Perhaps something brighter, beautiful, and brave. If there's one thing I can say for all of this, it is that time is a rejuvenating skin.

As for me, well, my own world is continuing to spin madly on.

Albeit, I've gotten a bit dizzy from it.

Trees of Life.

Elm trees. I've been noticing Elm trees. They are massive, magnificent, and majestic. The Kerr Elm by the German Bakery is my favorite thus far (I suppose it is the favorite of many). Every time I am in that part of the garden, I stand under it in awe. How can this grand creature be so beautiful? Not to mention how many years it has been growing there. Imagine the worlds of life that it has supported during all of its days.

A little while back, Trish had mentioned the Kerr Elm in her Bloom Report (here's a photo if you're interested). She stated that people had noticed the tree reminded them of the tree in the film "Avatar". Well, I just watched that film the other day, and I'm finding myself appreciating and paying attention to nature much more than I was. Within the film, the trees are all networked together, and can send messages to one another. I kept thinking to myself "oh, how I would love to live in that place". I tried to imagine it, when I started to realize that our world has similarities. Maybe our trees don't send messages through their roots, but they pass along leaves, seeds, birds, flowers, and etcetera. Everything is working together within an ecosystem.

Oh wise and weeping

Willow won't you wallow with

A wavering wrath

I find myself paying more attention to trees lately. Each one encompasses its own particular behavior - creating a character of sorts. Trees are symbolic figures for some people and cultures. They are used over and over as metaphors. A tree can be a playground for animals or children. Trees represent life and vitality. They can be menacing characters in films, or they can be gentle, compassionate ones in others. Even in our Historic Gardens we have many characteristic trees; the Weeping Nootka, Kerr Elm, Dragon Claw Willow, and Paperback Maple - just to name a few.

I am gliding past one million trees

With air flowing in the windows

These are homes of one thousand bees

And leaves show which way the wind blows

Last year I was given the opportunity to help the gardeners for a couple of hours. All I did was weed around a pine tree, and it took two hours. At first I thought to myself "is there any point? People probably won't even notice this tree". Then I started noticing it, and the trees around it, and the trees around them. Trees do so much for us, and I think it's important that we appreciate and respect them - even if it is something as simple as noticing them more.

Thoughts during Canada Day.

I woke up this morning with Canadian blood flowing through my veins, and a clay coffee cup in my hand. I took a deep breath. I knew it was going to be a busy day in the gardens with all the Canada Day festivities.

When I arrived at work I felt a bit chaotic due to the hustle and bustle of events to set up for. I felt the timeline reeling in closer without my control. I had completely forgotten why I was doing what I was doing. Then someone stopped me while I was in the gardens and said "you look very patriotic today". I glanced down at myself. I was holding a handful of homemade Canadian flags.

I smiled and continued the day remembering how grateful I am to be Canadian. I watched a toddler make his very own Canadian flag using leaves and paint. The maple leaf looked a little wayward, and more paint ended up on my hands than the paper, but he had the biggest smile on his face. He was so proud of what he had made, and he did it himself, in his own way.

Throughout the day I started to think about Canada. We like to believe that our country is multi-cultural; a mosaic of religions, races, and culture. We are a patchwork quilt. For this, I am thankful. We get to grow up in a country that allows us to be individuals - which lends itself to being a part of the bigger picture. Take a glance at this beautiful garden, and you see how colorful and vibrant it is. Look closer and see how unique each flower or tree really is. They all work together to create a masterpiece. This is what my vision of Canada is like.

Inspired by music...

On Sundays we have music in the gardens. This week, I decided to go out and listen to the flute music. I brought my notebook out with me, sat on the grass, ate a couple rice cakes, and let myself drift away. The result of that was a poem.

I’m sitting under a tree

And there’s a sculpture to my left

I notice the ants crawl on my skin

But there’s a beautiful act of theft

My attention has been taken

By a soft and shallow sound

And I become so still

As I sit here on the ground

The rhythm creates a ghost

It’s floating through the air

I’m afraid to let it in

So I shift my eyes and stare

I try and put this into words

As the world spins ‘round my head

I've been writing poetry

But life’s a book that can’t be read

--
ah bee