Aham Prema; I am Love; I love all the fluffy animals; Dear little Mousey (a reflection poem)

I began my day yesterday with Day 4 of Deepak and Oprah's 21 day meditation challenge. It's fun to have the guidance and to learn some new sanskrit mantras. Yesterday's centering thought was: "I am love." It was a beautiful meditation. Healing tears flowed from my eyes. Afterwards, I felt the deepest gratitude for the Earth and all that she brings. Love. For all.

I left my house later that day. On the path to school I noticed the trees bountifully springing forth fruit...I noticed, was aware of...well, everything. The interconnection of all life, and also death. And it broke me a little. I wrote the following in my journal:

The tree produces fruit.

I don't even know if it is edible.

Survival. What have we become?

A crab apple by my feet.

This tree, I know, is filled with fruit so sweet!

But they fall to the ground.

Giving. Giving. Giving.

Taken for granted. Waste and rot.

I walked and thought.

The fresh taste of from here fruit vibrant on my tongue,

"Can I pick them for you? I will bake you a pie."

Then, from the corner of my eye.

Tiny mousey, "Why did you have to die?"

"Wee tim'rous beastie."

Not an upturned earth this time.

You look so peaceful, as though asleep.

Lying on your side, no marks show me why.

Poisoned?

By this fucked up society.

You so resemble the tiny friend

Who skittered near my green felt bag

While he sat with me.

I miss him.

And you.

Let me gently move you.

Beneath the warm decaying leaves.

Back to the earth

From whence...

You came. We came. All came.

To stardust and of it too.

You. I weep for you. 

Dear little mousey.

Robbie Burns wrote a very famous poem. I recall it here, in my own. In his work, the mousey isn't dead. But the poet, the Ploughman worries that the mouse won't be able to build a new nest before winter. "Man's dominion." How long will we let it break "nature's social union?" Here it is:

To a Mouse By Robert Burns On Turning up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785 Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie, O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty,           Wi’ bickerin brattle! I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee           Wi’ murd’ring pattle! I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union, An’ justifies that ill opinion,           Which makes thee startle, At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,           An’ fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave           ’S a sma’ request: I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,           An’ never miss ’t! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,           O’ foggage green! An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,           Baith snell an’ keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, An’ weary Winter comin fast, An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,           Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past           Out thro’ thy cell. That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,           But house or hald, To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,           An’ cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men           Gang aft agley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,           For promis’d joy! Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! I backward cast my e’e,           On prospects drear! An’ forward tho’ I canna see,           I guess an’ fear!