Chains of life.

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dna

He dipped his pen into the inkpot, drawing, designing. Like an artist, every curve, color and hue, every movement, synchronization, function carefully planned. He set down the pen and a bright insect flew from the page. I sprang back in amazement.

Looking up, he smiled. “Do you like it?”

“Oh yes! That’s incredible! How did you do it?”

“Come, there’s more to see.”

He took me to a vast screen reminiscent of the matrix’s  jumbled number texts. Shining, yellow gold spirals gleamed, separate, yet joined by some invisible threads, surging in vital energy to form glistening chains of moving, glowing light rushing through the darkness as if eager to reach some far off point. Thousands of DNA chromosomes to be passed from generation to generation were intertwining, chains upon chains of life reeling through eternity.

He waved his hand across the screen and a vast support system materialized, air, oceans, sun, moon, plants, trees, even flowers all dependent on each other, woven into an incredibly complex web, a vast mass of intersecting golden chains of life. My heart pounded with elation at this melding of art, design, science and creativity. He seemed happy for my delight.

“You could not begin to understand the complexity, or the joy I experienced when the last chain was forged and leapt into being, intermingled, teeming with life,” He confided.

His eyes looked tired. I turned to go. I had remembered, “On the seventh day God rested.”

Nature’s Gardens.

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mossy path
Like the Ents (Lord of the Rings) I favour natural gardens. Not for me neat beds of flowers, immaculately raked brown beds and mown lawns. While I admire their beauty my heart is captivated by the wild where seeds are planted at the hand of the wind, watered by soft rain and arranged in random pattern of perfection far more beautiful to my eye.
Bent or broken branches tell their stories, delicate morning glory flowers on nettles, fallen leaves and branches interweave with child plants reaching up their tender leaves to the sun. Early morning spider webs decked with dew decorate the bushes and frost sets her hand to deck the lowly grass in glory. Decay mottles old broken logs in fascinating patterns of grey and brown, each housing its tiny echo system of life within (in nature nothing is wasted).
Plants, seemingly random, interweave their properties nourishing and replenishing the soil, providing food and habitat, a wonder of the hand of God set in place at nature’s birth, a never ending cycle of life that only man can corrupt, swallowing up ancient cities and habitations reclaiming its territory as man moves on.
Who could want a garden planted by the hand of mere bundling mortals when the divine lies at hand?