I am regurgitating a blog that I wrote years back.
I believe it is still relevant in my life because I exist in a world absent of time.
I do not wish to imply that I am not subject to the ravages of time and space.
Quite the contrary, I am more than ever subject to these vestiges of my prior existence.
That is my point in expressing my timeless presence.
My past is my future, and my present is my eternity.
It is my objective to live a life that captures every part of my continuation—I live in forever and my body and mind are subject to my spiritual energy.
This will be one of various past blogs that I will make entry of in my new website.
My home is in the land of 4 seasons.
Indeed, Vivaldi dreamed of it when he wrote his concerto masterpiece.
The seasons cross over the land and feed my consciousness.
Inspiration is but a rainfall away; imagination is but a snowflake in the snowstorm.
From out of the northern wood, my heart thrives and my mind creates.
The land is a conduit and my life moves through the seasons; thereafter, seeds planted until fruit grows in the dirt of my soul.
By my fruits, my soul is cultivated.
My fruits are my work, my love, my life.
In the land of 4 seasons, I live in the realm of the Gardener. My inspiration pours out of me and I pass my pen over the clean paper until my conviction is satisfied.
The land of 4 seasons is the land of my father and mother. It is the land of my youth—the home of my heart.
Wherever time moves me, in the northern wind is where I am most complete. Each season lifts my spirit, and when the gale storms explode across the lake, I moor my ship.
It is in the seasonal clouds where the Gardener dwells and descends to inhabit my spirit.
Across the land of 4 seasons, in the winter, the long cold sometimes can freeze time. Under the harsh snow, my garden sleeps.
Then… below the spring sunlight, the seed awakens and lives again. The bud gives birth to the lace leaf and the cherry blossom. Kissed by the springtime rain and the summer breeze, the maple and the weeping cherry touch once more in the garden.
In the transformation of the seasons, as the Gardener’s breath passes over the dust of my skin, my heart is happy.
Author of Publius: Libertas Aut Mors & Sword and the Pythia