Freedom is a choice. Is it? Stand beside the ocean in your birthday suit. Or walk into that floral painting . Daffodils? Delphiniums? Crocus? Lupine? Horizon lines. Yesterday, someone said that as artists, we are fascinated with painting horizon lines. The sky meets the sea. The land touches the water. I roll in flowers in fields of forever, at least in some dreams. If I ruled the world…every day might be the first day of spring. That jubilant season.
Truly, in the mountains I don’t want spring to come too soon. I want the deep cold that encourages spring flowering and summer fruiting. I whisper to the cherry tree and the bulbs beneath the earth, if they are listening, don’t blossom too soon. The deceit of a false spring could halt the blossoming and inhibit the bees when temperatures fall to freezing again. I wonder if the trees can understand my language–if they know I care. Do they witness my own wishy-washiness when it comes to not using plastic?
Is this a fantasy that I’m living? Is this reality a tiny wedge (Kathy would ask “a wedge of cheese”) in an orgasmic universe? I want to say omniverse although I’m not sure why. Is that what the big bang means–one giant orgasm that sprung the worlds into being? Can I say that here? Freedom to write what I want, to have my own secular thoughts. The ones that were forbidden by a childhood of too little freedom with an autocratic ruler.
It occurred to me again, that I really only found my voice recently. No wonder I save volumes of my writing. I won’t say everything on this blog. Some things I hold sacred, private. Having freedom entitles one not to speak when one chooses.
Yesterday, at the lake, I noticed the sky. The clouds were reflected in the water. I thought I could dive into the sky.
Freedom, claiming it, takes courage especially if you’ve been oppressed.
Freedom’s close companion is responsibility.