The Greatest Story Ever Told

Mother Earth always has the last word. She always will. Earth will be around for a long time yet to come, because she won't go until the sun does with a great super nova blast. But what kind of shape will earth be in when that happens? Will any humans be left? Humanity has to take some responsibility for that. The
earth does not sit idly by as we do whatever we please to her. She responds in kind. And what people don't seem to understand is that she is ultimately greater and stronger than we are, despite all our advanced technology.
The Icelandic volcano with the polysyllabic, unpronounceable name has brought much of the western world to a standstill. Jets and airplanes have been grounded for a week now. People have been stranded at airports far away from their homes or their vacation and business destinations. The airline industry is losing millions of dollars a day. All this because of a magnifcent, potentially deadly manifestation of Mother Nature. I love it.
Don't get me wrong. I certainly don't want any horrifying accidents, deaths or illnesses to happen as a result of the spectacular show Mother Earth is putting on. It's just that I'm in complete awe of how she can stop us in our tracks with a single display of her power.
I'm not personally or immediately affected by the volcano. I'm not travelling anywhere by air, and by the time the ashes reach my part of the world on the jet stream, they will be rendered relatively harmless. So I'm just enjoying the show and appreciating a fascinating, dramatic chapter in the grand and mythic story of this magnificent planet.
Mother Nature rules. She's not always gentle or benign, but she is completely impartial, and her latest display of power is a reminder of that. That is why she is my deity, and why the book she writes is my bible.
- G.P.

The Best Spring of All

It's been several months since I wrote anything on my little web. I've missed it, but I've been very busy writing other things, and my public musings have been neglected. The crazy thing is, even as I write this now, I still have no idea where this column will take me. So here goes ...
I've sat here for a couple of minutes roaming around in my head, trying to come up with a topic worthy of your time and mine. I've included a picture of a lily-of-the-valley to adorn this entry. Why did I choose it when I didn't even know the topic of my ruminations? Because it's spring and I love lily-of-the-valley. Those sweet, fragrant little flowers remind me of the happiest times of my childhood, playing in the backyard created by my mother, who was an avid gardener. As a perfume the scent is a little too sickly sweet and spinsterly, but when dozens of them proliferate a shady nook, the fragrance reminds me of heaven. And whilst we're on the topic - now that I seemed to have found one - lily of the valley is the flower I want to smell when I die. For a long time I've harboured the strange notion that I will pass on in the springtime, perhaps because I was born in mid-November. I've fantasized about wafting away to wherever it is we go when we die on a fragrant, invisible cloud of lily of the valley, accompanied by the sound of birdsong. I want to have lots and lots of birds singing raucously and joyously. (In fact, I'm being accompanied by birdsong at this very moment. I'm listening to birdsongradio.com, recommended by my friend Shauna, gifted songstress and artist, who designed my little web.)
It may seem morbid to ponder my death and how I want to experience it while describing my appreciation for the way in which spring, my favourite season, arouses my senses. Spring is the most life affirming season of all. Everything is so seminal and new, emerging out of darkness and growing into the light. I was born when the cycle of the seasons was turning the other way.
It doesn't matter to me if there aren't any lily-of-the-valley nearby when I die, I just want to be smelling them as I go. As for birdsong, I'd like a few real birds, as opposed to the virtual ones created by my imagination, to sing some happy notes to mark the occasion. Birdsong makes me feel safe. When birds suddenly stop singing it means there is a predator lurking about. So bring on the birds, say I.
There. That wasn't so hard, after all - finding something to write about, I mean. Now I have a better understanding of why I want to leave this beautiful world in the springtime, accompanied by the cheerful sound of birds, and breathing in the sweet scent of lily-of-the-valley. That's not a downer at all. But maybe I feel that way because I'm a Scorpio. Or maybe it's because I'm an actress and and want my final exit to be staged with grace and beauty.
One more thing, lest you think I'm wretched and miserable. I won't stop thinking about these things, because they amuse and mollify me, but I hope to do so for many years to come.
- G. P.