In the midst of what appears to be universal despair — especially that the clownish Buyden administration would do anything, anything, to begin to get us out of the deep, massive still eroding hole they have dug to wreck the constitutional foundation of America, and therefore, for humanity as a whole, now I notice that the current, magically disappearing baby formula supply, considered necessary for any baby not breast fed for the first six months, has been collecting at the southern border, there to feed babies of illegal aliens entering the U.S  — I seem to be living in a bubble. And I figure that my job is to expand the bubble to the point where it encloses the entire world.

Big job. But what if more of us are doing it, not just me. All these expanding love bubbles being deliberately created locally by sovereign individual souls, determined to manifest the new world where all of us can live happily ever after on a welcome, flourishing planet — or at least until death do us part.

How can I prove that is my intent? Well, Here’s what I’m focusing on this year, for the very first time.

Plus, I both noticed that I was doing it, and noticed that I had never done it before.

Why? And why not?

I refer to the fact that, aside from annual food production (see greenacresvillage.org posts), what I am obsessively drawn to plant in our yard gardens this year are perennials, more so than annuals. In fact, this instinct feels like an order, emerging from the collective unconscious: DO THIS!

Instead of the showy display of annual flower power, I’m getting teensy little plants, most of which I hardly know their names, and so must put a sign by each one, not just to be able to look up what it needs, but to identify it, especially since some look like “mere weeds” in their infancy —

— and I’m planting them around here in order to watch them grow, bloom, and spread, not so much this year, as in years to come. In other words, I am directing my attention to the future, as if there will be a future, as if we are not going to blow ourselves up, or complete the ruination of God blest America, or even die, myself, before my time. Before my time? Oh wait? Just today I heard of another former lover (back in my late 20s) who died, yesterday. That makes three in three months. So yes, it’s my time. My time, in my 80th year in a human body, to either die or to live. And while I’m still functional (something I maintain daily with four mile walks, plus yoga, chikung and tai chi) I choose to live, really live. Live as if each day, each minute, each moment matters. Because it does matter, it all matters. Like a mother (mater), I am here to nourish the world for all my remaining days.

Wherever we choose to put our attention, we manifest.

So which shall it be, only annuals, or focus on perennials?

Take that on every level.