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Prosies - the earth's rhythmic lover
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Prosies
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July 31, 2003 It's Lugh's season. The summer is waning. The first harvest would be on its way in—if we still lived in a place that lived according to the tugs and pulls of the plants and the seasons, anyway. As it is, the flowers are running riot through the height of their summer-yellow phase. The hint of autumn is threatening. I am still wild with sexuality, but I feel it waning inside of me. I feel winter coming. I try not to shrink before it. It come every year. Death, the earth's rhythmic lover, comes every year, and we survive in spite of it. Walking to work today, I saw this elderly Chinese couple wandering a little aimlessly down the street, shading their eyes with their hands. I walked up to them and asked them if they needed directions. "Ga ma pau ma," said the woman. "You don't speak any English, huh?" I replied. "Hesa ja kai ma masai," she replied, smiling, and waving her hands. I wished them luck and walked on. Two minutes later, I turned around, ran back around the corner, thinking that I should make sure they find someone who could help them. There was a Chinese restaurant around the corner--one hoped they spoke the same dialect. I found them squatting on the ground next to a young, Chinese woman. She spoke English. They were fine. The universe provides.
But I'm glad I went back to check on them. If I were wandering around in a foreign country an didn't speak the language, I'd want someone to do the same for me.
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