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May Fog

This foggy sky
darkly and relentlessly rains
especially for an early May morning.

He is not prepared for darkness
seeping in from new-born leaves,
not yet full grown
into this year’s tree-lacing dress,
soaking in from saturated soil,
slurping into his complexly relaxing empathic soul.

Perhaps this open quality
endears him to those few who could ever know him
enough to watch him,
watching,
noticing,
hoping for less rain inside today,
each day,
all Earth’s Days.

Wet liturgical Mays
dissolve his Taurean ways.

Yet, for him, right now,
such dark openness yawns too large
for even one dreary lonely hour
of self-isolation.

His two medically complex clients have gone,
as usual,
Monday morning until late afternoon.
Today, as he contemplates his decadent ways,
he misses their distracting charms.
Each so different.
YinYin so loudly Trumpian,
post-millennial triumphalist,
but also with some significant undiagnosed bipolar control issues.
Meanwhile Yang,
unable to speak or sign,
so hidden,
yin-shy shadow of rich warm love,
immersed in life’s right-now ripe composting time,
each moment,
graciously emerging from his co-arising past
to spin toward future yang-yin equipoise memories
of time’s karmic grace.

But, right now he must sustain thru dark raining dreams of suicide
without them.
He suffers withdrawal from feeling needed,
unworthy of becoming truly wanted.

Ironic,
a PermaCultural Family EcoTherapist,
actually achieving good polycultural outcomes
with his broken clients,
the one highly de-specialized professional wheelhouse
most needed to accelerate global networking
cooperative outcomes,
challenging each family and all climatic systems
with Yang-encultured dominance,
right here and now in this post-millennial generation
of ecologically balancing great and small,
daily transitions,
yet he feels hopeless,
not knowing where he could ever begin again
so late in this biological incarnation
already showing concerns that “Black Lives Matter”
but maybe not so much old black,
or white,
or even green lives matter
beyond their retiring biofunctional usefulness.

We all help make great compost when we die.
It’s getting in there,
completing the job,
embracing the vocation,
once and for all,
that continues to challenge life as EgoDeath love.

How does one retiring PermaCultural Therapist
best contribute to this time,
this ecosystem,
this community,
this family,
this primal relationship with Earth
and all Her tribal dialects
and languages
and species
and multicultural diversities of life and death cycles
and recycles,
and repurposes?

Probably reading F Scott Fitzgerald’s issues about cultural decay
and ethical integrity of bodies and minds
ingesting and regurgitating Earth’s generous beauty
is rather like sitting under a rain-drenched tarp,
writing stories of suicidal dissipation,
while Earth calls for Revolutionary EcoTherapists
to heal Her as she cries,
this early May morning,
under foggy dripping skies.

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