Her bucolic beauty abounds and is unprecedented, it is by no means just a superficial one. Her inner beauty has roots which run deep to the core of her heart. The life which flows through her land is fertile, it's pulse carries a calming cadence. The soul of her soil yields and produces the most majestic of flowers and the brilliant green of life. A true testament to her inner beauty. Rolling hills cascade down to join in the song of her flowing rivers, Paradise is what she is, but this paradise came with a price. Days of torment were endured, she was made to tremble and was disparaged from the violent castigations of thunder.
Floggings of lightening engraved their incisions, while the endless squalls inflicted their bruises and left their mark. The rains from her wailing arrived. In the aftermath the rains from her sobs adorned her landscape in splendor. Her beauty exceeds what it was before. Her tiara is the rainbow and at night it is the stars. Her inner beauty is botanical and inspires awe. She does not sit and lament but chooses to return her abuses with the gift of her gardens. The seeds of her afflictions spawn new life and an arboresque haven. The sun from her smile has never faded despite her tribulations, nor has her countenance ever fallen or ebbed. The by-product of her suffering has made her soul take deeper root and her landscape flourish and edenic.
Then there is the woman of the desert, she is self worshipping with an impervious heart of leather. She has never faced controversy or turmoil and wouldn't know how to recover if she did. She lacks character and is insipid in the lay of her landscape. There are no roots in her, roots cannot take place in a land where no soul exists. Her land is parched and cracked. Thistles and ragweed cannot survive within her harsh terrain and strident elements. Very soon they too will succumb and perish. Her complexion is dry and blemished. All her days she lays basking in the sun of her self indulgence. She is self centered and shallow.
She renders nothing but extracts everything. Waters of life do not flow within her, but the sere of death abounds. She is beautiful from a distance, but for those who come close to her, they are swallowed whole from her torridness without the thought of a chew. She is a waterless ocean with riptides of dust. There is no green of life in her, only the umbers of decay. Her flowers are not adorned with petals but with thorns that prick. The sun which shines constantly upon her has fooled her into believing she is one to be revered and venerated. The rains do not visit her, but she is too consumed with her sense of self and false worth to realize that sun alone without rain will never grow anything. The rains of life will never grace her.
The contrast of these two climates are a parable of the contrasts of people. While our world consists of mostly desert, there is paradise out there. What prompted me to write this was the reading of one persons blog. She is a songwriter / musician and it touched me very deeply to read her blogs. Within these blogs she writes of her pain and sufferings and how she was at the point of suicide from the incessant storms of her life which pummeled her landscape and left her spirit sobbing and broken, but through it all, what she lost focus of was how truely beautiful a spirit she is and how great the gift of HER is to this world. She focused on the scars from her storm and forgot how deep her roots ran. The words she speaks shows of a heart that is pure and chaste, and while the beatings of her storm left their scars, the rains came and graced her with a beauty unsurpassed. I was going to mention her name here, but the condition of her heart is where the tribute should rest. Your blog about your friend Phil touched me!
There are two climates of people, the first is the one who does not see their beauty or worth, but in the eyes of others their beauty and worth is unmatched and longed to be gazed and foraged upon. Then there is the one who thinks they have beauty but in the eyes of truth their soul is an abyss of ugliness where howlings of emptiness clamor and echo in a throbbing din of cold and lifeless darkness. You who wrote about "Your friend Phil" are the first climate! The storms in your life came not for the purpose of destruction, but rather to water the seeds of beauty sown in your heart. This beauty is your flower which is a perennial source of healing and comfort to the souls which remain suffering.
