I visited this place.
It was so wonderful to go somewhere else for awhile.
Theoretically everything is all one.
Parts being a conceptual tool our brains manufacture to navigate in the world.
Separateness an illusion to light our way.
This illusion of separate parts an opportunity to perceive structure.
Structure a tantalizing suggestion of possible meaning.
Oversimplified for our pattern seeking minds.
Which longs for patterns and forms in the wish that they help us find our way.
In this puzzling world of ours.
The foxtail is a kind of diaspore or a unit of plant reproduction which is dispersed. It’s a method of scattering and dispersing seed, scattering souls far from their homeland.
In this case, into the homeland of the California Poppy.
Filling the field with its brethren.
Leaving little room for the penstemon.
I want to hate it. I do hate it. But I also admire its fortitude and determination. Not to mention its silveryness.
There is something so basically hopeful about a spring morning.
Something eternally renewing.
Much the same as the familiar shape of the wisteria blossom in its new rendition.
Ancient pattern, new manifestation.
So much newness and freshness being manifested from an infinity of old patterns.
So much mystery in why this is so.
Don’t you just wonder about the nomenclature of Western science? Abiotic. How can anything this richly biotic that it is blanketing stones be abiotic? It’s so ultra biotic it doesn’t need to involve any other biota.
Every spring this happens and every spring I am simultaneously impressed and repulsed by the quantity of pollen. It just seems a little prehistoric.
And unreservedly fertile.
It’s almost like a weather system.
Stickiness with a frisson of yuck.
I mean doesn’t it seem like it is mocking the complexities of human reproduction?
Think about it: no ego, no stories, no family alliances, no economic benefits (no tax deductions), no cultural rituals, no bodily fluids, no passionate embraces, no conversation. Just a wordless oneness of pollen.