The evening air, the fading light, the warmth, mid summer, sitting around a table, trees to the left, grass at the feet, a beer in one hand, a few friends around. They were meeting with a Spirit, a stranger but a friend, the power of the universe was in their hands. The words of old were lost in translation, one of them utters, they all agree. The number of wars fought in the name of God, all because of the translations. Every way you look at it, it has to be a flowing river, and it has to be allowed it’s natural course. Was he talking about the river, the words, or was it themselves. He them made a triangle with his hands, it’s this simple. We are all part of the living earth, given talents and energies, how we respond is the same plight as the gardener and the crops, it’s what you put into the experiences that decides the outcome. They looked at each other, they were all young fathers, there children’s future depended on what they did, with the garden.
paddypicasso 