Jack o' the Green (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jack_inthegreen) wrote2012-05-15 07:51 pm
jack_inthegreen) wrote2012-05-15 07:51 pm
To bury grief, plant a seed. ~ German proverb
Previously: "It's always good to have company."
The god called Jack has not done anything like this for centuries. It has been generations and generations since he has walked the land and scattered seeds--not arbitrarily, of course, there's no sense in planting something that needs acidic soil in clay or something that needs damp where the weather is arid. Of course, most of the land in this world is gasping for life, desperate for it, and he feels that every seedling is a soothing balm. Aloe on a sunburn, water on parched lips.
~
As the land reawakens, Jack realizes he's reawakening too; the parts of himself that have been lying dormant since Gil's death are beginning to blink and stretch and look around. There is still love, of course, he still loves everyone he's ever loved, but the grief is quiet, asleep instead of constantly gnawing.
Through the network of roots that stretch back to Oasis, Jack tells Harold, "I don't think I could have done this a year ago. I was too unhappy. Being a widower is something I've never managed well. Of course, I've never managed not being married well, either.
"I miss him a little less with every seed. I think that's good. I think that's very good."
~
Jack plants trees. Plants flowers, fruit and grain. Plants weeds, even, because weeds are part of the system and the system is what works.
Jack encourages the small things to spread and grow, too, the tiny creatures that are also part of the system, every insect and mammal and bird. They needs to nibble leaves, eat fruits, drink nectar.
Even the big things, that would attack a mortal man, know who he is and obey when he asks for their help, following instincts they may have forgotten they even had. They scratch themselves against tree trunks, carry pollen in the pads of their feet, eat fruit and leave the seeds in their droppings as far as their strength will carry them.
(His voice to them is like the river. His hand is like the breeze.)
Jack leaves blessings with every seed. His children's blessings of protection and abundance, his own to thrive and feed and nourish.
It takes effort, but he brings rain, and soon there's a soft misty carpet of grass on the slopes and plains.
~
It will take time. It always takes time. But that's the thing about time. It always comes back around.
The god called Jack has not done anything like this for centuries. It has been generations and generations since he has walked the land and scattered seeds--not arbitrarily, of course, there's no sense in planting something that needs acidic soil in clay or something that needs damp where the weather is arid. Of course, most of the land in this world is gasping for life, desperate for it, and he feels that every seedling is a soothing balm. Aloe on a sunburn, water on parched lips.
As the land reawakens, Jack realizes he's reawakening too; the parts of himself that have been lying dormant since Gil's death are beginning to blink and stretch and look around. There is still love, of course, he still loves everyone he's ever loved, but the grief is quiet, asleep instead of constantly gnawing.
Through the network of roots that stretch back to Oasis, Jack tells Harold, "I don't think I could have done this a year ago. I was too unhappy. Being a widower is something I've never managed well. Of course, I've never managed not being married well, either.
"I miss him a little less with every seed. I think that's good. I think that's very good."
Jack plants trees. Plants flowers, fruit and grain. Plants weeds, even, because weeds are part of the system and the system is what works.
Jack encourages the small things to spread and grow, too, the tiny creatures that are also part of the system, every insect and mammal and bird. They needs to nibble leaves, eat fruits, drink nectar.
Even the big things, that would attack a mortal man, know who he is and obey when he asks for their help, following instincts they may have forgotten they even had. They scratch themselves against tree trunks, carry pollen in the pads of their feet, eat fruit and leave the seeds in their droppings as far as their strength will carry them.
(His voice to them is like the river. His hand is like the breeze.)
Jack leaves blessings with every seed. His children's blessings of protection and abundance, his own to thrive and feed and nourish.
It takes effort, but he brings rain, and soon there's a soft misty carpet of grass on the slopes and plains.
It will take time. It always takes time. But that's the thing about time. It always comes back around.