November 28th, change knocks at the door and fertilizes the ground as comfort freaks cling tightly to pillows. We’re sobbing couch potatoes and busts of household masters insisting that our creaturely attachments stay intact through the ruptures, and that the status quo over which we coo holds its place. But eco-demands to face the wanted and the unwanted blow in the wind and thorny vines knock against our windows. House contractors, just gone blind, set up renovation sites on wastelands full of noxious weeds already killing all the crops and livestock.
The imagination, wondering what’s redemptive about this state of affairs, this chokehold of change amidst overgrown weeds, puts bouncy sandals on our feet: even if we begin on hot coals, we can go anywhere if we but imagine. Dogs leap out of the under-earth, recently revealed after those blind contractors uprooted the foundations, teaching us how to soar back and forth from the hollows that are often invisible. Since the imagination itself has weeds, and we’re asked to start from the bottom, we now must imagine anew. Once we’re able to see what gates have opened from the shifting foundation, we’re able to see and go where we choose. And now that the ground itself has opened up, all of its brambles, wild roses, dandelions and stinky plants become the guides to our rejuvenated fertility.