Inspiration; a picture sent by my friend Tracey Lloyd, who loves nature. This summer my family met up with her family and we went to Cambridge together, where I took the second pic.
He brushes
away the last grains of sand from the grass, the vast greenness of the neatly
brushed lawn never fails to make him feel good, useful. Nonetheless it is what
lies underneath, what nobody knows, that makes him love his job. Grass is not
just a collection of small leaves, it is so much more.
He started
this job when the recession kicked in and the demand for craftsmen in the
building industry decreased. He was used to working on physical demanding jobs,
often running up and down construction ladders, working high up, never close to
the ground, all day long listening to music playing loudly from the radio and
joking around with the guys.
The first
time in his new job, when he was handed over a brush for working on the lawn he
laughed out loud, but shut up rapidly, silenced by the stern looks of his superior,
it was not a joke. Cutting the grass with his tiny garden shears and brushing
off the dirt is considered serious business, a job that demands a high level of
accuracy.
Inwardly
cursing the recession and unemployment he set to work, missing his comrades,
their jokes and the loud music, the last part replaced by music from his
earphones. Only once he whistled at an attractive female tourist, which was
rewarded with a reprimand that he was now working at a college and not a public
area, such behavior could not be tolerated.
One day, a
few months ago he forgot his earphones, cursing silently when he found out. He
was in for a very boring day. Like the days before he kneeled down on the grass
and started the cutting and the brushing, hearing nothing but the sound of his
shears and his soft brushing and the murmur and comments of the tourist in the
background. But after a few hours he started to hear something else, like
little voices humming, although it was very soft and hardly audible. The sound
intrigued him, it was a bit like music, but not like any music he had heard
before.
Next day,
when he put back up his earphones, something stopped him from turning on his
own music. He unplugged himself, listening to the soft sounds of which he was
now sure were generated by the grass. It was like the voices were calling him,
trying to tell him something. This went on for some days until he got more and
more used to the voices and he could distinguish words in the soft music
generated by the grass. They were inviting him to come and have a look
underneath. Using an excuse he dug a manhole next to the grass, knowing he
could not hurt the grass. He just lifted a tile next to the lawn, to be as
close as possible.
That night
he stayed at the college and went down, invited by the little voices, digging a
little bit aside until he was under the roots. The grass was cheering and
talking to him, very excited this time! It suddenly struck him. He was looking
a big brain, all the roots connected like synapses of nerves, idea’s, thoughts,
pulses going through, back and forth underneath the whole college, the whole town!
‘Yes dear! This
is where we collect thoughts, input from above. This is where we combine and
dream up new concepts, this is indeed our brain. From here we whisper our
dreams into the world, for those who are able to hear. Thank you for brushing
away the dirt from our receptors, thank you for keeping our head clean.’
Looking at
the new sign he put up in the lawn, he brushes away the last grains of dirt
from the lawn, listening to the soft voices, humming wonderful ideas to him. He
records them all and listens back to them on his headphones, digesting it all,
waiting to tell them to the world when the time is ripe.
Comments
Post a Comment