The Scent of Weed and Manure

 It is summer night sultry in the dead of spring.  Sunroof’s open on a country road where the memory of something high school lingers in the wafting scent of weed and manure.

What is nostalgia but a self centered opinion of the past tucked away for a rainy day?   

In this moment the yearning for something gone by is a self conscious indulgence for a thing that is true only by this impression. I am changed by circumstance and nothing is lost but rearranged and memory is subjective. The surface shifts where we do not. The human condition changes by both effort and resistance but some things are barely mutable.

A million years of evolution (what were we doing?) and television brought us together with family on Sunday nights. A moment later the computer relegated us to private lairs. Social media introduced us to strangers:  Some become pen pals and some, faceless diversions. We are bombarded by distractions and we are adrift in possibilities. Here is the job of weeding the pasture.

Human nature is preserved by seeds of beginnings that no bleach or osmosis can banish.  Mind and body adapt while this remains the same starter of love and hate or fear or maybe the uncertainty of desire and instinct for survival. Primordial genetics reveal the truth when the civilized mantle is discarded. If information is illumination than we are becoming enlightened but how many years of enlightenment will it take for a human to be like the figures we call God?

Wired to create; we are symptoms of time and desire.

A compilation of a friend’s piano melodies play as I write this. He was kind enough to send them by mail though we don’t live so far away. Life stands between those we love and our daily duties. There is much loss between the brutish blasts of bothersome chores made strangely less cumbersome despite endless avenues of help.

The music is haunting and why does that word sit down beside me and what is this haunting but the sweet heartbreak that is a heart too full? Isn’t this nostalgia?  Again ghosts rise unexpectedly and I recall sitting on a piano bench beside another old friend, one from my childhood who is also a composer today. What impression he had on me! I was 16 and he 15 and for years ever after that we were friends and I the first employee of his budding company, Elias Arts; my task to write descriptions of his melodies for press releases.  “Prayer Cycle” his composition that was written years later might have been for me ,now the yoga teacher. It has my stamp upon it too where I’ve paid it homage in raw movement forged by smoldering embers of our past.

Bob Dylan made an offhand remark in his film documentary, that ‘progress obliterates the past’. I mentioned that to my musician buddy Dave who’s on the same time-line as Dylan and he insisted that Dylan was completely wrong as technology has made it easy to record everything and so nothing is lost.

And I picture my parents pouring through thousands and thousands of photographs that would take a pick- up truck to move, reluctant to move them all to the new home they had built but horrified at the thought of losing them. What is it that would be lost?

I suggested they throw them in three moving boxes sent to me and my brothers so they might still exist without crowding them. But they could not part with the past, even if they would not visit it again. They had to keep it close. Memory recorded preserves what progress indeed obliterated on the surface. Below the surface we are fossils in stone that morph with age and wear.  Look into the stone to see that what was remains the same. It is there we recognize the humanity that we remember as love.

What if we mapped our human time -line? Here is my birth and here is my death.  I want to be happy. What do I do in between? Who am I uncluttered?

We have been to a friend’s home for dinner. Eight of us have come together and blown apart so many times but we stand undivided today in kinship, with laughter, dosed in food and wine that are not taken for granted by one bite or sip.

Beyond the clutter, beneath the clutter, despite the clutter, magnificence is all of us; our love, our art, our desire, our creation, the friends and family which are our imaginings. This is memory early as the first cell. We are potent with love and dreams. We are driven with time and desire. There is no standing still but moments preserved remind us of our glory when delusion or despair overcome briefly as the tide.

The air here is scented with something else; perhaps it’s the magnolias that have begun an early bloom. Early; racing ahead of schedule this year like everything else, like all of us: Toward what? Only memory will tell.

Just found this in the NYTimes.



Filed under new age enlightenment, Uncategorized, yoga

8 responses to “The Scent of Weed and Manure

  1. Beautiful! You are a word crafter . . . with much wisdom to share. Who am I uncluttered indeed? Often I feel like my highest goal in life might be to be secure in that knowing by the time that I die.

    • You know, that really would be beautiful. Let us know that well and way before we die so that we might revel in ourselves. We would honor the earth that made us if we knew our place in all this, eh? I’m with you. Thank you for the mighty kindness.

  2. Hilary – Thank you once again for your wonderful words. I believe you would make a great lyricist!

    • Then I would like to be a lyricist! I sure could use a new job since yoga’s been turned into a second job or hobby for working folks. 🙂 Meanwhile, I added a link to your youtube site, friend. I realized after the first posting that I had forgotten to do that! Now we are joined in music and writing for sure. Love…

  3. Thank you for another thoughtful and beautiful post, my friend. I’m very sentimental, Hilary. Can’t part with any of the kids’ stuff. Grieve for the things I’ve lost. It’s as if I think that time can be embodied or frozen in a photograph. I want to hold on to the good times. Does that work? Maybe. It’s also a place where one can become lost. Some danger in everything, I suppose. On the other hand I know that everything constantly changes, so there isn’t “everything” just energy, prana. It organizes to our perceptions and then re-organizes and disappears. But it can be sweet, can it not?

    Thich Nhat Hahn says that his late mother is always with him. He is of her and all his ancestors. Each step he takes is with his mother’s feet. And then I think of Krishna pointing out that we’re all kept spinning like tops.

    • Thanks David. I didn’t know about the “spinning tops” theory of Krishna but I agree with it. And also that our ancestors walk with us. Sentimentality is a beautiful mark of our humanity, one of many emotions of love and one that is positive when it invokes sweetness or guides us. But it’s also painful and that marks us as well, some more than others. I am responding far from home, just awake in my dear brother’s home. I am surrounded in this rare moment by family; the family I grew up into and my cousins and aunts and uncles. It is spectacular and I am savoring every moment. It is times like these that all else seems trivial by comparison. It’s a ‘Be Here Now’ thing seasoned with “The Way We Were”. Impossibly beautiful.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s