A vision flowering

This is a living sculpture Cristian and I designed at his house in the outskirts of Buenos Aires.

Words, images, and our laughter
like the flat surface of water
that is held up by the leagues of mystery below it.
In a hot firey birth
The One created the colors of the tropical reef
with all its intertwined sensuality.
And when s/he too was afraid and alone
the large ocean-going fish were born.

The willow tree makes windows between her branches
so that I may see
that what is outside
is also inside of me.

Esperan lluvia en el monte
todo callado
cada gota una bendición
un universo.

What is culture? It’s what makes us feel good.

It is the handshake, the bow, the kiss on the cheek that engages us with others.

It is the repeating pattern elaborated onto a cloth that weaves us into the warp of the universe.

It is the healer of many faces…. the one with a degree who sells pharmeceutical drugs and the salvage whose refined knowledge of the plants, rocks, and mountains and the music they make attempt to create harmony where the delicate equilibrium of life has temporarily been thrown off and that pain has been stored in some part of the body.

It is the mask that lets us see life and death behind the suede cloths of the theater stage.

It is a short solo, a rhythm that briefly emerges from the overwhelming symphony of divine creation – it is the clapping of rocks on the shore of the river, the beating of animal skin around a fire, and the flight of a violin like a kite in the wind of a moon-lit night.

And so it is our great challenge… to create the culture of new villages. Gatherings of people, families forming family. It is neither the city nor the solitary hut of the hermit. They are the new villages that are born on private land, far enough away from urban centers to pay the same taxes, have the same singular title deed that one family would. But as it is the evolution from within a system towards new ones, people begin to gather together there and live in a radically different way to its appearance on paper. These villages are close enough to the land to grow almost all their own food. This is the heart of the village’s connection to the land on which it has settled – too often overlooked by the pride of man to already build its buildings, the mere skeletons of the true vitality that is found in fields of grain waving in the wind to the sky and turning gold, distilling light, like the sun.

We work with rhythm, with a humble dedication that is not fueled by Starbucks nor any other stimulant.

As I write, I am healing myself. Learning. And now I must go until next time.

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