When I write in my journal, it's frequently analytic, introspective, or gushing emotion. Today I decided to walk around the beautiful neighborhood I now inhabit, and the nearby campus. I wrote in my journal something much more enjoyable than usual. It felt good.
[I don't write for an audience.]
"I'm sitting at a pond. Passion puddle. There are geese, an applauding fountain, kids playing with volleyballs and badminton, more types of life and green than there are buildings, and a scattered few papers around the bench I'm on. There's a feather on the ground before me, many pebbles in the mud, deepening shadows, ripples and reflections, duckweed, and handsome large rocks. The sky is clear blue, the air is filled with the odor of moving water, and I can hear nothing unhappy.
Where I saw the children throwing something powdery at the geese, I now see the birds pecking at the ground. The apex of the fountain is tossing the tiniest dew above it, releasing hard water droplets into a mist so fine it can whisk with the breeze, still visible.
It makes me so happy to see that residents of New Brunswick (not students) are using the campus as a park. It makes me feel less cut off from life; it brings a sense of community to the place that otherwise feels like a microcosm--blind and irresponsible. Just goes to show how the land on which we live is only borrowed from Gaia, and from the life that we consider 'not us'."
No comments:
Post a Comment