The imaginarium of the mind cares not for blizzards, ice storms, cabin fever, time or for that matter the much acclaimed prophecies of 2012. It ignores the furtive shadows that play between the interstices of gray matter as it sorts through its past and gazes towards another year. The tiny and larger fears of 'whatever' that took hold as the light faded and the Northern Hemisphere braced itself for another winter, evaporate before weary eyes and hope takes root once more. Yes, it's Love with a big L and it for Life and renewal. It's time to reap the benefits of that compost of old ideas, tired prejudices, atrophied bluster and come to my senses!
A wintry mix slashes the small cabin inches from where I imagine. I'm risking a power outage and possible burn out of micro chips once again but I don't care. Bills are piling up, the to do list is collecting dust and the kitchen is some what of a no mans land. The book that I've been writing for some years now, after a flurry of motivation and resolve lasting throughout the fall and through the holidays, has been dropped like a hot potato, its import as insignificant as a misplaced sock.
Instead I scan the virtual seed catalogs. The mind is on fire. I don't hear Raine, the two year old cat, who tells me it's to time to change the litter and refill the bowl with dry food. The radio in the back ground could be beeping civil defense warnings of the possible catastrophic results of a looming four day ice event but the mind of the body as I see it, pinned to the swivel chair locked in on images on a flat screen, has entered into the sacred space of the Imaginarium.
Before it is a dimensional etch-a-sketch with colored images frenetically morphing, nay stumbling into each other. Quick instantaneous edit allows the human using the Creative App to stay with certain patterns while substituting images of referenced plants, considering height, light and soil requirements, texture, color, fragrance and utility. The eye after a virtual flip of the virtual page of the virtual catalog focuses on new open pollinated varieties of Sunflowers. The inner critic applauds-is actually excited. Never has it experienced such a sensation-such a brilliant display of rubies, dark centered pinks, lemon tipped reds, mixed golds with bands of burgundy together in one mix. It forgets for a second it's purpose and sees them as masked eyes of an exotic alien race come down for covert surveillance. Aliens in drag so they can watch and study us. The pattern App of the soft wear of the minds eye quickly changes to accommodate these flowers that honor the glorious Sun God. There that's better.
The design is changed. An old brick pathway wends its way down through two large pines to the dirt drive. A panoply of all variety of Suns from short stocky midgets to giants of every color and texture imaginable drawn from ten catalogs arrange themselves perfectly without a hitch. Fingers type in a daze without conscious knowing, opening up pages, flipping, saving, diminishing, enlarging, comparing and researching ideal conditions. Ground hugging herbals fill the cracks between the old brick or stone maybe and other edibles, herbs and flowers alike, get splashed into the mix among rocks placed and a section of cedar fence placed for climbing sweet peas. A wind chime hanging from the front porch, two large blueberries on either side. Some herbs planted in narrow window boxes placed on the railing of the porch, free fall in a riot of sensual desire.
I imagine my hand combing through the redolence on the way out in the morning, feasting on the ripening berries, watching as the Sunflowers reach towards their names sake, the source of real power. I walk slowly down the path and stop. Ah, yes, something larger there. Perhaps a few Elderberries or some bush Cherries. And some edible ground cover around the pine that doesn't mind a low Ph.
And so it goes. A hundred square foot culinary kitchen garden only a few feet from the back door. More edibles in the medicine wheel garden. More heirloom Apples. Try Kohlrabi...The orders are sent and copied, filed, first of a few, and poured over ad infinitum to redundancy. The mind, more objective now, looks in wonder at whats happened over the past hours. Has the imaginarium been too bold, too cavalier with its owners time. After all there are so many hours in a day it hears and then hears Raine. He's hungry.
Is this temporary insanity, passions gone awry, anal behavior in behest of the Master Creator or just a contrived paradise of respite and renewal? Has the compost of the previous year been allowed to simmer long enough, to break down completely into its nutritive parts to feed the imagination for another round or is this only a premature stab to be followed by others; game changing or corrective? It's almost comparable to a reboot of the entire Wetware, the lynch pin that lets all else fall into place for a new year, a new me. I believe, if I so allow it.