The Best-Ruined Plans

Good morning again from stormy Mercyburg, where we are all feeling fecund, lush, and fertile in the spirit of hallowed antiquity. Today is the holy day previously devoted to sex and procreation, later sanitized when it became Christianized, of course. No matter. No dispersion. Worship as you please but We are mindful of our history here. Nature seduces perennially. It was once a sacred rite, essential to society. Now, not so much. Unless you happen to be in Mercyburg. Pandemic notwithstanding, We are moist and flushed and ready to make magic.

And by We I mean mostly me and those I imagine in my collective, which might include you. Those who practice any kind of alternative spirituality which allows them to believe it to be a divinely natural condition that the Earth and Nature are so damn sexy right now. Seasonal sexiness. Exposure. Warmth. All the fine hair growing back in. A surge of fresh arousal. Fresh because we’ve come out from under the covers and been beckoned Come Hither to a stimulating change of venue. Let’s do this outside.

Because although it can be agreed that each season comes with its own distinctly different sexiness, the fact that this changes with the seasons amplifies the appeal. Right about the time we get used to one experience of it all, the smell and taste and feel of it all changes, and thus our appreciation of it all changes. And our observances likewise change.

And funny is sexy. Clever is sexy. Today is both. I laugh like a hyena every time the Saturday before the Christian Easter is sunny and mild and then Sunday comes in all stormy. Not for the reason you think, though. Because it forces folks out of the expectation of how the day and its traditions will/must be observed and into a confrontation with the relevance what and why without the prescribed activities.

Today, here, no one can blame the virus alone. It would have been the weather today, here, either way. All is dripping. And thunderous at times; lusty with a heavy, light, heavy, light rhythm long into the afternoon. And no place for children or pastels or parasols. This is, in fact, the most adult of holidays when observed accordingly. With naps. And bathing. And bowls of things rather than baskets.

I stare out the window at the deepening mud puddles and fall a little bit more in love. Swirls of bright green pollen oozing across my porch. Everything swollen and saturated. Maturity manifesting in the ache of buds and birth pushing up and out and forth and under and upon. How right it seems to opt for sex today instead of boiled egg farts and tooth decay. How alluring of Nature to assert herself by ruining one set of plans to set the mood for another.

Conception. During a thunderstorm. Imagine such a maternity. What shall We carry? What shall We deliver? What shall We breed? It was once a sacred social response. Is it not still? Do We not still choose Our insemination? Should not Our consent include mindfulness of what We shall produce? Our next contribution? What shall We generate among Us, individually and collectively? We may wake pregnant tomorrow for what purpose?

See how Nature stirs these desires and coaxes them forth into whispers. Today is the day to say it. Say it, sing it, scream it, just name it; what would you bring forth? What would you incarnate? As if Nature and her world are dependent upon your production, what will you conceive and gestate? What will I? It will be something whether We choose or not. Whether We believe or not. It will happen as Nature takes her course.

The staunch and stoic can still eat their beastly plates of dead pigs later tonight but today, with Us, she will have her way.

— Mercy

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