Foggy May

This foggy sky darkly and relentlessly rains especially for an early May morning. He is not prepared for darkness seeping in from new-born leaves, not yet full grown into this year's tree-lacing dress, soaking in from saturated soil, slurping into his complexly leaking co-empathic soul. Perhaps this open quality endears him to those few who could ever know him enough to watch him, watching, noticing, hoping for less rain inside today, each day, all Earth's Days. Wet liturgical Mays dissolve his Taurean ways. Yet, for him, right now, such dark openness yawns too large for even one dreary lonely hour of self-isolation. His two medically complex clients have gone, as usual, Monday morning until late afternoon. As he contemplates his decadent ways he misses their distracting charms. Each so different. YinYin so loudly Trumpian, post-millennial triumphalist Yang DoubleBangian, but also with some significant undiagnosed bipolar control issues. Meanwhile Yang, unable to speak or sign, so hidden, yin-shy shadow of rich warm love, immersed in life's right-now ripe composting time, each ElderBrain moment, graciously emerging from his co-arising neural past to spin toward future yang-yin equipoised memories of time's polypathic karmic grace. But, right now he must sustain thru dark raining dreams of suicide without them. He suffers withdrawal from feeling needed, unworthy of becoming truly wanted. Ironic, a PermaCultural Family EcoTherapist, actually achieving good muticultural outcomes with his fractured clients, sitting on his sagging butt in full-blowing Spring, the one highly de-specialized professional wheelhouse most needed to accelerate global networking cooperative outcomes, challenging each family and all climatic systems with Yang-encultured dominance, right here and now in this post-millennial generation of ecologically balancing great and small, daily transitions, yet he feels hopeless, not knowing where he could ever begin again so late in this biological incarnation already showing concerns that "Black Lives Matter" but maybe not so much old black, or white, or even green lives matter beyond their retiring biofunctional usefulness. We all help make great compost when we die. It's getting in there, completing the job, embracing the vocation, once and for all, that continues to challenge life as EgoDeath love. How does one retiring PermaCultural Therapist best contribute to this time, this ecosystem, this community, this family, this primal relationship with ecopolitical Earth and all Her tribal dialects and languages and species and multicultural diversities of life and death cycles and recycles, and repurposes and transubstantiating regenerations? Probably reading F Scott Fitzgerald's issues about cultural decay and ethical integrity of bodies and minds ingesting and regurgitating Earth's generous beauty is rather like sitting under a rain-drenched tarp, writing stories of suicidal dissipation, while Earth calls for Revolutionary EcoTherapists to heal Her as she cries, this early May morning, under foggy dripping skies.