No question whose country it is out yonder. City slickers have a whole lot of words these days. Words create separation. Good thing there aren’t many out this way, only a beating heart to be heard. Nothing else instructing it to beat…self-charging…think about that one for a minute or two. No amount of credentials from someone in a lab coat has syntax for this one, at least none of cognizance within our limiting five senses. As of late, rather for some time in the dark, an unbeloved version of us can conceivably be designed without the hand of God…strange times indeed.
Strange things are happening no stranger would it be
if we convened at sun-up under the budding tree.
Are you, are you riding up with me?
Where I told you to wander
to weave within the breeze,
forlorn and crestfallen would’ve been
if you weren’t side by side with me.
My version of that inverted not-so-sweet-innocence of a nursery rhyme “The Hanging Tree.” Why is this tune, laden with dark undertones, so catchy that it could be hummed or sung alone or with thousands? More to think about. In any case, no outside circuit board needed in these parts…you are that which is written so that in us you may learn not to exceed what is written, so that no one of you will become arrogant on behalf of one against the other. You are “written not with ink but by the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of flesh, that is, of the heart.” -Corinthians 3:2-3 You are present here independently within the wholeness of it all. Giddy on up already.