Feel in the teeming heartbeat of all living things
Even through steel and concrete the energy sings
Strong as the roaring daylight caught in the leaves…
Gaia Consort Green
I can’t be the only one who feels the human world becoming more and more alien.
I was trimming off branches in the garden yesterday, preparatory to a de-fleaing (yes – our Girlie is officially a FleaBag) and realised that each tree has its own distinct personality.
Unlike most of the Plant Kingdom – which seems to have a group soul more often than not – trees are individuals.
One of the two Chinese Laurels, for example, is a right bugger when it comes time for a haircut. She complains bitterly the whole time, along with the Lemon Tree. I developed a stomach ache about ten minutes into the operation. I moved on to the WaterBessie and the other Chinese Laurel, who were most accommodating of my somewhat inept lopper-wielding.
Perhaps the reason we humans find it easier to talk to trees than to, say, a Stinging Nettle, is this very individuality. Trees have been around a lot longer than us, and I’m willing to bet they have wisdom we won’t attain in a thousand years.
So I’m sharing this piece of land with a bunch of rugged individuals, which is great.
At the other end of the spectrum lie the Aliens who call themselves my human neighbours.
On any weekend you can stand outside the house (or inside it, sometimes) and hear a discordance of sounds which grates fingernails down my spine.
I’m not a particularly grumpy child-hater, but the ululating wails of the young progeny on three sides of me can be most disturbing. I often want to yell Good Gods! Sacrifice the child properly! at the parents.
The vacant-headed giggles of adolescents flirting with one another is just as far from music to my ears. And as for the White Trash yelling obscenities at his family across the road – well, let’s not go there just now.
The whole cacophony, set against a background of simpering, wailing, utterly misogynistic female Rhythm and Blues ‘artists’ which forms the staple musical diet of my coloured neighbours, encourages me to believe that I am, in fact, a member of an alien species unaccountably finding herself hatched among humans.
Then again, at one in the morning when all I can hear are the songs of the Nightjar and the hustle of bugs, I can rethink that position.
Lovely Picture stolen from the Gaia Consort MySpace page