Why should life be more complicated than what the birds make of it?
This, a thought that has come to me watching a thumb-size one flit along the branches of a tree in the yard of a cafe I am enjoying a breakfast and coffee at.
Bananas in a bunch hang from a palm. How crazy and marvellous this world is for life, food, sustenance to display itself like it does. What a show! What a temptation! They actually don’t so much hang like one sees them displayed in the supermarket, but rather they stand erect, curved upwards like stacked umbrellas flipped on their heads, creating multiple tiers of cups around a central pole.
But that erectness!—one can’t get it out of his head, especially after glancing around the rest of the garden that is glowing, nay!, vibrating and shimmering with life. In a corner is a large shrub with four cylindrical, pointed, phallic looking flowers (not yet open) protruding from the tops of four stems, just begging for it. How everything seems to be sex. The whole natural world. Everything wet, damp, dripping, lush, conical or rod-shaped (even the leaves of certain plants), or open, inviting, softly curved and sensuous. All around me the stuff of life is asking for it, or doing it, or has recently done it.
A small beetle flies by, from shade into sunlight, vanishing back into shadow again. The theatre of life and death.
Perhaps life doesn’t need to be more complicated than the birds make it. Perhaps it really is as simple as nature makes it out to be. Sex, food, play. And because life is everywhere, so then is sex everywhere.*
Enjoyment. Enjoy it.
*what came first, life, or sex? (this is rhetorical, of course, but comments will be happily read)