I can’t read very much at any one time.

Less than a chapter. Maybe part of a paragraph. Maybe a single sentence. Maybe a phrase.

This is a progress report. I’m still reading Braiding Sweetgrass. Just finished Chapter Four, “Burning Cascade Head,” in the section entitled “Braiding Sweetgrass.”

That whole chapter is a densely elevated poem.

I’ve already said it, the whole book is a poem. But a poem with purpose, prose and science, history and philosophy, ancient truth, love and longing.

I don’t mind filling blogs and postings with it, because it’s gotten to me, stirred me up, speeded up the process of knowing myself and the world, and slowed me down to experience it.

More than I did before, I go out into the yard, sit on the grass, and talk to the trees.

“Who you talkin’ to?”

“Myself, and the world, the trees, the grass, the sun, the breeze.”

“You crazy!”

“For life, yes.”

“You’re dangerous.”

“For all things wrong, yes.”

“I’m keepin’ my distance.”

“You can sit over there, safe, and listen to the wind.”

“I don’t hear it.”

“Listen.”

“Oh, yeah, somethin’, it’s tryin’ to tell me something.”

We sit apart for what seems hours.

He moves a little closer. He follows my eyes to see what I’m seeing. He nods his head.

It is the Mediterranean pace of living. Eat well and rest midday. Finish the afternoon with activity, then stay up late with life and music.

The Mediterranean, the Cradle of Civilization, where life gave birth to humanity.

Here I am in California, Kimmerer’s book at my knee. I agree with her and she agrees with me.

The world gone wrong, fast and cold, numbers replace words, having controls getting, money holds sway, the rich write the rules, and AI is clarifying us in our own image.

I see myself more clearly. I see everything more clearly.

Kimmerer sits beside me. I let her speak. She has intensified me beyond my limits. I answer back.

Things I wrote all my life before beyond high school, recovered fragments, and there I was as I am.

The cosmic earth, the balance.

Eventually, I’ll finish reading the book. By then, it won’t matter. It’s already part of me.