SOC Writing _ 20th November 2020

 Truffula Trees

In boxes, on their knees, the lost world of life and colour and light. My son knows what the earth knows, feels what it is like to be right. To know incarnate justice. Its just a thing when you are close to righteousness – like children are – and you, the adult have erred so far – have taken on rules and cultural norms – are not true to yourself – betray even your deepest need in service to what is right. I love this teaching – the look in his young eyes that tells me clearly something is not ok with my take – that I missed an important piece of information – of his in – forming – the nation of children, once quieted by grandparents – books under arms – have got some jolly good lines of questioning for our folly filled lives. I am not thinking they should run everything – but a point from their view is much needed. We are dying for a change in global hegemony – the stupid white men’s time is gone and in its place our children have some treasure to bestow. You know, I only got to this adult body via some strange elixir – the promise of truth if I followed the lie – in my body, dying as it is – I feel a fragility that causes me to question my large and remarkable plans. Pulls me back to earth where bugs crawl and insects shuffle under the leaves composting below. Everything is changing. I build a small chook house from broken things, refuse at the back of my property - and low and behold it is enough for the hens – not made to party on but that is clear enough. From broken and discarded things a simple joy arises - the bag lady smiles as she shares one of her smelly precious-ness-es with you – you know she means well – even she is in touch with the small pleasures that must be re-discovered and preserved – for children, for me – an adult  - letting go of what no longer serves me.