Harvest (or, An Exhortation To Outcasts)

When it comes to speaking your mind from your mouth, the sentiment spills into scenes, and the saliva sprays are, in fact, a sacrament.

And Spring is just appearing after endless winter months have graced the stage,
and we have long been caught in the rib cage of an ice age.

But we have not waited in vain; frozen, yes, but ever thinking and ever dreaming, waiting to be thawed out in a hundred years and and put on display in the national museum, amongst the sarcophagi and holy books and rosetta stones…

We will be historically significant when we awaken.

Each of us is a crucial part of the cacophony, active and electric participants in the symphony: we are movements, and we are being conducted together.

and I don’t believe that you are what you eat, because despite the steady diet of notebook paper and napkin scrawl that has been ingested by my kinetic and unrelenting soul, I have yet to become… stationary.

We are seasons. We are not becoming extinct, only changing our clothing accordingly to suit the weather. We adapt.

Call us earth-shakers, record breakers, the brand new lawmakers.
The scientists, the activists, the strugglers and haphazard courageous sleeping on street corners, and in care homes and in spare bedrooms.
We are the little brothers, tag alongs, the late-night fiction readers, the cheekbone shiners and nose-bleeders.
We are the halloween ghouls, the thanksgiving pilgrims, and the sleepy, tea-time and lullaby-loving citizens of the hometowns we all have in our back pockets.
We are the spirits who will visit you at midnight on Christmas Eve. We are here to open our mouths in order to unlock eyes and ears, our own notwithstanding.

We are cuban cigars and aged scotch on the rocks, letting the fireplace warm our woollen socks, getting up to answer the door every single time opportunity knocks books open on our bedsides: our Tolkiens, Tennysons, Nerudas, and chicken scratch love songs to all of our various Prufrocks.

Still, there is more for us…

Step out from under the awning, this protection –  Walk past the skeletal branches and barren hillsides of the things you used to believe in, and come be my guest.

Warm your hearts at this hearth. Feel the heat of kindness and truth permeate your body, and let yourselves soften.
I long for us to learn how to warm the wintry places inside each other,
Revive one another.

I know people love their cars and credit cards, but pardon my disregard, sympathy for civilized society is harder when part of me is still in the garden, under the arbour. When winter scatters, I’ll be searching the sky for patterns and coming alive soon after, when springtime gathers and summer lingers.

See, I have big, big plans for the harvest, to fill up my larder, with wine and stories, shared experiences, conversations, dark roast and salvaged wood, wool sweaters and your name a thousand times, good round potatoes,
pieces of paper that I have dreamt upon,
sheet music i saved from the fire, beautifully charred edges but not forever,
shoes with worn out soles, unable to take me any farther – Why don’t you come over?

So we can enjoy the warmer weather. I can tell you humorous anecdotes while we sip tea on the veranda, or sit back with biscuits and molasses in the parlour…

We can talk about how people are mountains, worthy of our expeditions;

and how righteousness can look a lot like being wrong,
if we can no longer hear the beauty of someone else’s songs.

This is the promise – of the thawing out of hearts who are locked up like lifetimes of sunshine in winter, wanderers and farmers alike.

This is me throwing wide the cellar doors, and let the voices pour out, setting them free without remorse. I can hear them every day, calling to all of us, here, now, and forever. They’re saying…

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the rain fall softly on the fields of you,
May you be cradled in the palm of the Almighty,
and May your arms be strong for the sowing and reaping that is to come.

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