Strange is the World, and Strange are Her Children

Today's post is not written by me. It is from the blog, Flowers for a Foreign God. I wish I could write this beautifully.

Here is the direct link to the post.

Bundles of verdure lifted up to the afternoon; sweet, golden opium humming in their boughs; traces of moonlight still fermenting in their leaves. These soaring maples, these clouds of honeysuckle, like schools of restless fish flashing in cashmere green, whirling in invisible waves, breathing together in choral unison. Such warmth, such down in their form, such hospitality in their bending and swaying and fluttering.

How could it not be a divine entreaty, a beckoning of a thousand hands?

Isn’t it strange that the scarlet nervous system resembles an inverted tree, the channeled nerves its branches, the spinal column its trunk? The soft organs, the blood washing and coursing in endless loops, the fat and bones - a mobile, reddish forest - dark hills and trees and rain and atmosphere, all funneled into a singular experience.

There is something here, living in the haze. Some endangered spirit - or many, perhaps - breathing in silent peace beyond language. I cannot diagram their relation to the woods around me, more open than I am to my body, more fluid, more intimately present in each of their organs; but I smell the vegetal spices carried in their robes, feel the warmth of their tingling skin, taste the water of their cold blood, and I stay in their company, instructed in their wisdom and bliss.

Strange is this world and strange are her children.