Beyond our seed-littered pond a small forest of bamboo grows wild.
Hear the wind-rustling like shaken paper? Bamboo.
Shabby and peeling but erect with greeny health? Bamboo.
“The zombie of tree-life? Bamboo”—La Rochefoucauld.

Not to require beauty for survival? Bamboo.
Not to require syntax for survival? Bamboo.
Not to require your permission for survival? Bamboo.

To be wild bamboo is to march in all directions simultaneously.
Like the expanding universe of legend.

Like grace marching into our lives, unbidden.
Sometimes recognized, more often hidden.

 

To be bamboo is to thrive as to be weed is to thrive.
To be weed is not to require another’s approval.
To survive, a weed must be only a weed.

To be what you must be, weedy logic.

To be what another would wish you, cultivation.
“I became myself when I gave up pleasing others”—Goya.

To please others is a way of pleasing oneself.
But not the wisest way.

Bamboo marching by night!

 

I dreamed that wild bamboo grew in a corner of our bedroom.
Wild bamboo in our bed, in the marshy bedclothes.
My hair was roots and tendrils, my spine was a green rod.
Thrashing and writhing in wind
         as in the calculus of Eternity.

Yet bamboo, too, dies. What a mystery!

Like grace marching through our lives, unbidden.
Sometimes recognized, more often hidden.