What Grows Between Us

 What Grows Between Us

 

It is great to have friends
people of the same tribe
a community of like minds
banding together
week after week
enjoying each other’s company

sharing politics
religion
meditation practice
shopping
food
music

while the landscape changes around us—

mosquitoes biting
leaving welts
spiders dancing in the light
weaving their delicate webs
mushrooms capitalizing on damp ground
creating whole villages of their own

and beneath us
what we cannot see
is happening too—

roots reaching
mycelium threading through soil
one tree touching another
water moving
nutrients passing
life giving itself to life

nothing truly alone
nothing entirely separate

the patterns intertwining

forming their own economies
their own communities
their own small worlds

and when I step back
I see the larger picture—

not just a quilt
but a living fabric
where every thread
holds another

where the circle needs the square
the soil needs the rain
the mushroom needs the tree
and the tree, perhaps, needs
what grows unseen beneath it

And maybe this is what we are:

not only great

to have one another

but critical.

Inside the circle,
within the square,
beneath the surface,
we hold each other up.

We are whole.
We are one.

A small group of friends—
and a much larger
living thing.

 

The Green Jungle

 The Green Jungle

The green jungle
outside my window
conceals mysteries—

what my neighbor is up to,
where the cats disappear,
what stirs beneath the leaves.

Hell, that jungle is thick,
so thick I think of cutting it down.

Mostly because it shelters snakes
and other creatures,
hiding in its tangled shadows.

Critters like Tiki,
and maybe even
a time machine.

Grandma smiles at me
from the windowsill,
as if she can read my thoughts.

But she is a distant memory now,
a voice from a vanished world.

She lived through World War II
in a shattered Germany,
with five children to feed.

Fleeing from one relative's house
to another in the middle of the night,
while bombs fell from the sky,
leaving only moments to escape.

One of those children
was my mother.

In 1945 she was nine years old.

Most of what they endured
remains hidden inside her pretty head,
buried beneath the years.

Perhaps that is one of God's graces—
That memory spared her
some of the horror.

But her body remembers.

It remembers hunger.
It remembers scarcity.
It remembers not knowing
who was friend or foe.

Before the victors divided the country,
before borders hardened
between East and West,
my mother escaped westward.

She was one of the lucky ones.

And as I stare into the jungle
outside my window,
I wonder what else survives unseen—

the snakes,
the cats,
the forgotten stories,

and the roots of old fears
still growing beneath the surface,
hidden like a forest
too dense to enter.