Friday, February 22, 2013
Humans once read the common language of plants and animals, deciphered scat, scrapes, prints and rubs.
We tracked the moon from silver-sliver new to mother's-milk full, women's calendar of ovulation and blood.
Food and fertility.
We heeded seasonal change, witnessed migrations and charted the sun's path south; the length and show of shadows.
This was our language.
We carried it in a satchel called instinct.
Now we read without breezes and the smell of rain, conjure senses through ink.
Words on pages, words on screens, words dis-connected from the sensuous.
Our experience one-dimensional, souls thirst for context more than man-mind-made.
The language of place -- the old growth ponderosa pine, round river stones, bellowing clouds, grizzly dens, bighorn speckled cliff sides -- we meet them and re-member.
Every thing speaks.
Hear the chorus of survival.