by Digger Barr
gaiasgardens.guru/
In the waste land of a war torn landscape the wind blows into dust devils.
Swirling mini cyclones move randomly and phase out over a tiny rise.
Vegetation is sparse.
In this environment one cannot pound a pulpit, speak in high volumes or force an idea into a crevice it doesn’t fit.
But the wind can carry seeds designed to float great distances.
A milkweed seed is light and its umbrella gives it great lift.
Like a helium balloon it can rise on the slightest air current and journey far from home looking for a place to settle.
The dust devil plays out and releases its grip.
The seed settles gently to the earth.
We call them weeds.
But they are a miracle in the making.
What else can you call the survival of an idea in the most unlikely growing environment.
Seeds find their way into the cracks and when nothing else is willing to try, the milkweed sprouts.
Without any outside nurturing , without the luxury of doting concern, the seed gives growth to a whole new way of looking at things.
If a weed can grow in a harsh desolate condition, imagine the growth if the conditions were optimal.
Imagine the field of tall waving flowers of change, watered and nurtured by relentless storms.
Pounding rains of discontent imbed the seeds further and deeper in the crevices of our psyche.
We cannot continue to pretend the tempest doesn’t exist as it screams and howls what we have long ignored.
When the storm passes it leaves behind freshly watered soil, hydrated and ready for fresh seeds to grow.
All the messenger needs to do is blow the seeds into the wind.
If the environment is right and receptive, think of the possibilities.
I knew as soon as I stood in front of his booth. I knew that he knew and that was huge.
He was selling fresh pressed juice in plain clear jars.
The best damn juice I have ever tasted.
And there was his sign in front of his booth that gave him away.
And that’s how I knew.
The large 5 foot tall wooden carved replica of a Tartarian building facade held a neatly printed plain black and white advertisement. Fresh Pressed Juice.
The table next to the sign was equally as simple.
A cash box next to an ice tray with 4 different types of juice.
And a whole bunch of Tatarian ornamentation.
I looked at the man sitting behind the cash box.
Long wavy hair pulled back in a large bundle held by a tie, this guy seemed gentle and receptive to potential customers.
Behind him were multiple coolers. Each holding a delicious cache of bottles of fresh pressed juice.
“Are you the owner”, I asked?
NO, he will be back in a moment.
It didn’t matter. If this guy was sitting there, he knew too.
When he stood to get my bottle of juice he rose to a towering 6 foot 3. Maybe taller.
Almost the tower demonstrated by the Tatarian imagery outlining the entire booth.
“My booth is just the next two over,” I said.
I will come back to meet him.
Meeting a fellow messenger was thrilling.
His methodology makes me smile clear down to my toes.
Yeah, he gets it.
He knows.
And we are here.
The seeds.
The seed Sowers.
The crevices.
In the fields.
The weeds, the plants, the people swirling in a cyclone of change, raging, confusing.
Grab a bottle of juice from the freshest of fruit.
Keep it simple. Press it. Bottle it Sell it.
Surround it with seeds.
So delicious you will go back.
Look for the tall wooden sign that looks really cool.
That’s the place for nourishment.
This guy knows.
Digger25