The sun finds a small gap in the clouds and an explosion of warmth covers me, then it goes back into hiding. I look for it and white glare stares back at me. Another stormy night: thunder and lightning preceded by fog; by low, low cloud. The fireflies were a galaxy of short-lived stars, and then when the fog descended they switched off. Too much energy to expel for too little visibility, perhaps. Now this morning there is dampness, an avian chorus and growth. Green, green growth. It is so powerful here that is seems as though you could actually watch grass grow. In Australia we get one crop of hay a year; here they get three, and all within a window of just over six months. They have been baling up the first crop these past couple of weeks: mechanically grazing, industrial cattle. And at the bottom awaits a sea of green, vibrant, pushing up, defying gravity, skyward to start another crop. Unquestioning.
How many times would you need to slice me down before I decided it was pointless and gave up? Where is the override switch that allows me this self-defeating luxury? Maybe it’s true that I’m given nothing I can’t handle. Maybe, without questioning, I would continue to thrive until the time came to rest. Without questioning, maybe I would just be an organism serving its purpose. And if I could look at my life without questioning, maybe that is precisely what I would see.