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Saturday, June 07, 2003Outside of my door there's a rosebush that blooms about this time every summer. Right now the wind is blowing, and the thorns are scraping against the glass, a constant brush of sound that i've become accustomed to, and once in a while a gust of wind will cause a crescendo-shriek, and then it will die down again to the soft brush of sound. Now, i could go out there with a pair of clippers and hack away at that rosebush until nothing was left, and i'd never have to deal with the scraping again. And i'd feel powerful about it too. Funny, the way things make me feel. Funny, i had no control of the seed that planted the bush, no control of the water and sun that fed the bush, no control over the wind that blows the bush, but going out there and destroying it would make me feel powerful. It would make me feel like I triumphed over it because i destroyed it and it could never do the same to me. But there, beneath my feet, trampled and crushed, would be one of the roses. And as i walk away i would have no control over the wind that would pick up the roses' pollen, scattered by my departing feet, being lifted by God's fingers into the air. I would have no control over the that pollen blowing across the arroyo until it reached another garden, and pollinating another rose. I would feel powerful. I would be wrong.
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