Georgetown, Green River Grass

I am not a botanist. I do not know the names of most plants. I only know the most basic descriptions: tree, flower, plant.

I know which is pleasing to my eyes and which is pleasing to my imagination. Often, the trees and plants are just scenery, things in the background, noticed but not remembered.

Like all writers my imagination is always searching for metaphors, always trying to cajole syntax, always wanting to take the most simple, mundane idea and turn it into something beautiful and thought provoking. So after a long walk, my eyes were exhausted. People of various ages and sizes had been cataloged. My ears had been paying attention to automobiles with varying cacophony skills. Buildings of uniform sizes had been admired because of slight differences in stone and glass.

But, for the first time, my eyes uncovered the natural beauty of tall grass near the river. It was easy to imagine the grass as being there forever. This grass stretched and swayed toward heaven. The blades were different shades of green, different widths, and different lengths. Clumped together, although individual blades were clearly visible, this was one unified thing, one living community.

Some of the blades were bent to the left, others to the right. All around were other blades surrounding, encapsulating. How fertile it all looked! Other plants more delicate, more unique appeared amongst the blades. Fragile petals could be seen. But, this arrangement was beyond artistic, beyond beautiful. It was awe inspiring. Each blade reflected the late afternoon sunlight in an unique way. There was something serene and disciplined in this arrangement; there was something wild and chaotic in this clump of grass.

What stories did each blade have to share? What prayers did each blade remember hearing? Looking into this green community, my mind felt both patience and reverence. There was no excess, no waste. There was simply life. The realism of this particular bit of grass is remembered because of the unplanned, organic way that it was discovered. The wide river with the beautiful fascist styled bridge were the initial subjects. Looking at this grass was an afterthought. Seeing the bridge in the slightly orange, slightly gold glow of the late afternoon sun had captivated my imagination. But, the tall swaying grass impolitely sketched its image in my short term memory. Was it a still life? Was it a picture of rural life? Had my eyes seen anything like it in an art gallery or museum? Would Renoir have painted this? Or Van Gogh? How would Picaso have painted these blades of grass leaning toward heaven?

Remembering that sanctuary of playful, reverent greenness provided both questions and insight. My eyes experienced the beauty of patience. My eyes gazed at the heaven reaching green blades of grass and I was thankful. The grass is both individual and community. Personification is a good tool for examining life. Personification allows this blade of grass to be described as if it was a human being. The peaceful togetherness of the blades of grass allows me to think of universal, unconditional love as my heart and soul reaches for salvation.