When I was young and idealistic, I used to wander in the woods past the creek at the bottom of the hill, wander forever in the low wet soil, its vines reaching at times all the way to the top of the dead trees, wander farther, the decomposed leaves of seasons past lying on the ground, the smell of the earth and my adolescent lust inspired by all this, by the desire to celebrate it, to consummate the season, whatever season, there.
There–no one up in the house on the hill claimed to understand exactly what pulled me there past the creek day after day, but I knew. I threw flower seeds into the woods and watched them, fascinated I was as they grew so improbably given my complete and utter lack of experience. I found my creative space, my home.
I am less young now, and pragmatically idealistic. I have watched things grow, and die, or bloom, and it still always seems a miracle, all of it, all of life and what becomes of it.
And I am tearing up my yard. I am destroying whatever grass and strangling vines that remain and encouraging the flowering weeds–are they weeds if they flower? I am pulling up, shoveling out, shifting and scheming, imagining, planting, spreading seeds, making a complete and total mess it seems (as if this yard were not already a complete and total mess) simply to create space for the beauty and awe that I want, that I choose, that I can let grow then in whatever wildly unexpected and wondrous ways that will come from it all, from these roots. This is what I want.
What I want? Oh yes, yes, I want to let it invade, the chaos and the growth, the beauty and the power of letting lust bloom, love bloom, yes, yes messy, awful, courageously concupiscent bloody yes you.