This, a rice field land of feelings, is nourished
by unseen emotional streams. It is bellied to a sky-fill of ominous clouds, with
silhouettes from within ourselves that are banking anguish into thimbles as these
worldly symbols are to our dreams. Each moment’s active tongue of these
feelings is a straining inward hemp rope towards the oxen of evidence. There is
never clearly a sensing task or strain. There is no lingering contact with
other’s hands or efforts yet tending by all is done under the rhythm and sound
of our oxen feet as we vacantly feel for the plow blade’s cut into the soil of
ourselves standing sure beneath the water’s weep. Movement towards growth, is
never reaching for sunlight straightaway. The wardrobe of what efforts appear is
as all hands busied, eventually in underwater ways. We are all standing there,
sometimes in slowed torrents to work the dark feelings of liquid for a
mud-plant weave. Though darkened, we so churn the rice field liquids without
immediate discovery or surprise. There is privacy of solace from within each of
us. We each have growing seasons of ourselves that measure life by patient
means. We are hard share as the labor of practice while fields within ourselves
look beyond at these muted garden of curses and blessings. Oh there are
fragrances of riddles and binds in the darksome of each persons’ rice field of
feelings. From a world rich and yet labored of feelings, we all are tenders of
this rice field’s dark side hum . . .
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