‘Two Vines’

Rosemary Kimble is a self-taught photographer whose journey began while volunteering with wildlife abroad. Moved by the stillness and wisdom of nature, she began capturing the spirit of animals, cultures, and landscapes across the globe. A spiritual seeker and an intuitive by trade, Rosemary uses her sensitivity to subtle energies as a guide in her photographic exploration. Her images serve as portals into the unseen—where the veil between worlds is thin and the sacred reveals itself. Through her lens, she invites viewers to experience these realms and spiritual connections for themselves. www.visionsandreflections.com/photography/ rosemarykimble@gmail.com

Two Vines

Great is the true way; the ability to take it like a deer was given to me since the beginning. Well-equipped, well-informed, now, let’s see what I do with it. I’ve been preparing my whole life for it, all along the way. I’ve trained myself in all positions, in all situations, while everyone else was simply satisfying these anachronistic roles, as if they were their lives. I had the heart to tell them, they didn’t have the heart to hear. They were equipped, too, if not better than I, and it was a shame the way wasn’t tackled by them, too, like I was trekking it, and will continue to until the way stretches beyond the land of mortality, a funny thing, the way we all die in the end. I keep my death and Death in the forefront of my mind as if Death was one of my great teachers; I do so through my graveyard meditations, when the mosquitoes are not around, to protect myself from coming down with west nile – and dying; there were all kinds of ways to speed up the life-death process. But each day, I start out expressing thank yous to the day and for all that goes into me having a day, the day I was in, to work on everything I can work on by having the gift of life, having the day, possessing the powers that can interact with it all. One of the most beautiful things is to start the day, by setting everything in order the best way I know how, before proceeding deeper past the gateway when wonderful events are sure to take place because life within a day was one marvelous occurrence after the next. 

The winds are great forces today. They demand recognition, and when I stop thinking of them, they blow even harder to force my conscious thoughts to stop what they were doing and focus upon the winds. The winds blow straight through the cabin; the winds violently shove the bare tree tops; it’s amazing they can withstand the great force against them. Against them physically, but somehow, despite the assaults, they were with them closely, intimately, like they are with me. They have something to say, something to do. There were, in fact, a great deal of benefits that powerful winds bring to Nature; not the least of which was to spread fertile seeds all around, and to jostle fertilizing processes. They keep the living plants and trees, the grasses and the flowers, the fruits and vegetables fresh and invigorated. I am the winds. You are the winds. I recognize you. The raven makes an attempt to cut across the blue sky, just beyond the reach of the chokeberry, but abandons its trajectory due to the winds, and veers in another direction, playing within the patterns, returning to a safe haven on the land. A seagull cut across the sky, glided, looked upon the land, glided off, landed where it was anchored to the lands below. A palm-sized sparrow found shelter in the green and brown grass blades, where it nibbled around for its sustenance, as the winds blew around it. I am life, I am winds. You are. I recognize it. I live and breathe in your presence. You are everywhere; there is no place without you. I am comforted by your presence, and by the strong winds. The winds blow eternally, but down here, I am a visitor. The wild honking geese make a mad dash through the air, refusing to rise higher than 10 to 20 feet above the land, aware of the winds, steering them in all kinds of patterns against their will, cutting their designs in a whole different way, but it is the day, the day of the gusts, the day of you and your recognition out here within it, in March, after Ash Wednesday, days before Spring begins. I am the winds. I will bring you Spring. The winds were arousing life again, drawing out the animation spirits deep within, where it was all sheltered in the depths of winter. The winds were summoning their essential essences, drawing them out to dance with them, the dance of existence. Dance with the Powerful God. Emit the prayers and the praise and the celebration and the song! Wake up to the power. Do not cower before my presence, but raise your hearts to the endless blue skies. For you are giants, you are gods. You are me and I am you

“Come to me sweet Julia, come to me from out of the sea. Julia!”

Beetle wrapped himself up in his layers for a windy day that winter still had a presence in – for now. Soon it would have to release its hold and retreat for a while, but it had accomplished the most amazing things, there could be no bitterness for it, and what’s more, it created Spring, gave it birth. My God. Thank you Winter. Beetle calculated the winds; he figured as long as he could go to Julia not fighting directly the winds as a headwind he’d be alright to bicycle there; he had few other options. By water would certainly prove a disaster under the conditions, the white caps across the bay waters, and yet, he thought he could, if he needed to, make it since once he got into the harbor, he’d find protections from the outside harbor perils, what else were safe havens for? He could walk, or even jog, but time was critical. Beetle had what he’d call obfuscated psychic powers; he knew something but not all of it, creating a need to go check it out firsthand. But it may not have been a psychic power at all, but rather a seed sown by the last time they were together, and the decision that made itself for them, how she’d die in the throes of her painting. He had been struck just then by the realization it may have just occurred or was occurring; granted, it was the decision after all, so why not? But, nevertheless, Beetle was moved by the emergence of it actually coming to pass, quite possibly in the moment, and if it were, he thought he could arrive in time to alter the course of her existence. He disliked the contradictory nature. At the very least it was an opportunity to say goodbye in that one moment. The dying die, the living must live on and deal with the death until they, too, go the way of the dying. 

He looked up at the sky, after taking the bicycle from out of the carriage garage. He observed a peculiar cloud formation in the east. It appeared like a woman laying on her back and a man over her; there was space between them except for the midsection, where they were attached by a cloud extending out from him and into her; they passed by in the winds overhead. Beetle knew it was Julia and himself up there. The bicycle, quite old, needed air in its tires. Beetle was laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation. He hurriedly hand-pumped both tires until they were firm again, knowing if it was a close call he could forever blame himself for not preparing his bicycle ahead of time for those rides out there, where he loved being, bicycle and him, all around and arriving at key places for the moment as if these were magically ordained ground coordinates allowing him to have portal-like moments between himself, the world and the other worlds when it all became crystal clear, known, knowable, and quite joyous, wonderful, beautiful, seamless, eternal, and for other occasions like emergencies; he thought he hadn’t had emergencies out on the island before until possibly the one he may be having now. For a moment, he felt her, Julia, with him, and that only intensified his eagerness to find her in town; there were a few places he’d check, but he knew he could rely upon a particular communication they developed. It was as if there were times he was hovering above the town, observing her going about, and there were times he had observed her travel from one point all the way until she arrived out front of his cabin, and he knew she had, because when she arrived, she knocked at the exact time he saw her knocking, give or take a few seconds, the seeing was always a bit ahead of the physical occurrences. He was sure once he got down in town, he’d be able to just know. 

He hopped onto the bicycle, and pedaled off; it was the first time he had gotten on it in the new year, and he wasn’t expecting to be on it again until it was a warmer day and the circumstances a joyous affair; nevertheless, he felt the joy, despite himself, and thought it peculiar he would, when things may be not so good for Julia, and yet, he told himself, he had to actually accept what they had decided, and that it would be a good thing, and a cause of celebration, and he’d have to see it, feel it and declare it so if he were ever going to live a life according to the tenets of the Perfect Day philosophy to a T, not just approximate it, when he still had the chance to do something with any day, an opportunity he was guilty of taking for granted from time to time, but lesser so these days as he was now launching himself right out of the gate with an acknowledgement that the day ahead was a precious gift, and he was thankful it was upon him to do oh so much with it. 

Beetle’s calculations were spot on; due to various factors, he was spared the might of the wind as a force of resistance. That fact alone assisted in giving him the confidence he was in a harmonious state, working according to the ways and means of that which moved around within the whole entire cosmic order; it was a good strong feeling, not only for the moment, but for his entire existence, stretching all the way out to the moment of death and beyond; he thought there was a way to die, and the way was sustaining the holy harmony he could feel some of the time when he was trying to live the days with a concerted and intentional, willful spirit in hopes of accomplishing what a lifetime was established to accomplish. It was always there, he knew, it was just a matter of setting himself up right, which took a great deal of effort sometimes and other times was effortless. But always, he tried, and always he’d be trying; trying was all he could live upon. Trying was the endless accomplishment. Within the urgency, he was mixing all that nature was offering, and what an abundance of heaven’s riches from the treasuries there always were; he could spend more than a lifetime in merely appreciating one small section of it all, for that in and of itself was all. And since he had immersed himself into it all, there was a narrative spinning out for him, a relationship among all the characters of it, who he had come to know in a great way, be it a tree, a bush, a plant, or the many insects or animals or birds. He heard, then spotted a squirrel, leaping from branch to branch after darting up a gray trunk from the underbrush at the first detection of Beetle, who once again wondered how it was he should even be there disturbing stuff; he’d have to make amends for it. One way he thought possible was to let it all know he was a man of peace, via various methods of communication. He was disappointed about his ineffectiveness of the method, but it did work occasionally, helping to sustain a hope that the method would one day prove efficacious, like spiritual exercises will one day yield the ultimate transformation, but in the meantime it was a little bit here and there, and still the disappointments of having thoughts and feelings and acts that seemed in utter rejection of all the good work that went into them. 

He spotted a Cooper Hawk on the crossbeam, overlooking the farmland, cast its Egyptian god eye at him, filling him with the truth of the Ancient mysteries, connecting him to the substances of realities that were often ignored by the whole network of busy lives, ignoring the gift of the day. And Beetle knew he, too, wasn’t fully immersed in it, but it was always a spectrum, from those far removed to those totally immersed, although the far removed were by far the largest in number, and the totally immersed were the fewest in number, and perhaps a person is only alive who is totally immersed like once every one thousand years or so, and Beetle knew he could do the best he could, which was always better than what he was doing, illustrating to him, through the instruction that was ever present in it all, that he had the great potential to immerse himself totally in it all. The farmland looked quiet. The pigs and cows were taken away months ago, once the coldest temps of the deep winter arrived. He knew in the distance were goats, but he couldn’t see them, only the barn structure they were in. There was upturned soil plowed, and he was enthusiastic to see what the farmhands would grow in the fields, during the sowing season, just right around the corner, as the temps increased along with the light. Wild turkeys stood around the grassy edge of the bike path, watching Beetle pedal by. He greeted the turkeys, and figured they understood. Why not? A sound was a sound, jam packed with meaning. His pace had quickened, the muscles from another year awakening to feel useful once again, and as if to prove themselves, as if to convince Beetle never to wait so long between uses, despite the seasons. He was glad they were there, in relatively good shape from their prior use. He kept a close eye on drives cutting across the path because at this time of year drivers were less careful in pulling out across the path into the road thinking there’d be no one on them, and if they saw one, they’d have to do a double take or triple, thinking it was a ghost or something. A crow cawed from a treetop overlooking Beetle; he was glad it was there; it meant something to him, always did, something important. 

Town was quiet-like. A pounding from invisible builders sounded mysteriously; he could think of a few sites where they might be, but he wasn’t sure which one it was; he had no visual, only heard the sound, repetitive, as he glided down the incline into the heart, the main artery, which most always illuminated the state of the universe at the time, all converging upon it to illustrate the ups and downs of the human experiment, and, when swimming in it, taught it through firsthand experiences. Whenever it felt good, the goodness overwhelmed all else, including the past experiences that may have led to everything not feeling good at all; it was the case that the most minuscule of good was more powerful than the greatest volume of evil. The day was warming up to temperatures not seen since early fall; Beetle nearly couldn’t believe it. Perhaps it would be one of those days after all, when he would have gotten on his bicycle anyway, and yet he never thought it would be like this, pedaling around to come upon Julia to see if she was dead or not. Birds in treetops and other undisclosed places sang sweet melodies, songs of the heart, for the joyous nature of life. The pagoda tree outside of the old Carnegie Library towered in the bright light, full of promise, the blossoming, the leaving about to start. The pagoda possessed one of the largest presences in the area, and called upon all who saw it to become much better than they were through spiritual exercises. Some heeded the call, others ignored it, and still others defied it by thinking and saying the worst things imaginable as they worshiped the gods of materialism, as if they’d save them after death. The pagoda was there for the saving after death through the insistence of contemplation; if he contemplated the tree, he’d find gifts aplenty, so the tree not only insisted but gave, all for the single aim of a person’s spiritual attainment, level upon level upon level. To have the pagoda in the community was a blessing from heaven, heaven’s tree planted right there. 

He turned, thinking down the hill at the ferry ramp, Julia might be, inside the art gallery and workshop, which was once a shipbuilder’s business, where he turned out marvelously crafted boats as if they were the greatest creations imaginable; to be an instrument of creation was indeed the highest form of existence. There was no telling how a person would arrive at these magical moments of existence, these highest crowning achievements of their personhood, but they’d come, oh they’d come in the most amazing of ways from all kinds of patterns along the way; in the shipbuilder’s case, he was a child of Portuguese immigrants, and farmed among the great plains before changing professions and discovering his passion and love for shipbuilding by the harbor waters. He loved it so much and did so much while loving it that his spirit remained in the building to this very day, Beetle could attest to this fact, having seen him at work multiple times, receiving from the vision great wealth of spirit to use in his way moving forward, as if it were a fuel amid a fuel-less world. It was apparent she wasn’t there, and he had to pause for a moment and meditate. It came to him. When the ferry pulled up, he told the captain he’d pay his fare later when he had the money, but he needed to get across; the captain, knowing him, nodded in approval, and let him take the minute-long journey across for free. A seal played around on the surface of the water as the ferry moved across. He looked at the seal, he looked past the seal at the lighthouse on the point, he looked further on at the golden-faced cliffs. The chains clanked. Beetle thanked the captain surreptitiously, wouldn’t want the practice to catch on, and bicycled off to where he knew Julia must be. He cut off the main road, down a narrow pathway between low-lying vegetation coming alive again, and many trunks of pines and scrub oaks, looking like ancient bones, covered in thick green wiry lichen. The pathway was narrow, but the terrain was smoothed out enough through walkers that he could ride on along without a problem. He arrived at the end of the footpath, where there was a small one-room cabin overlooking the sound, just outside of the harbor mouth. He got off his bicycle, and leaned it up against the side of the porch, which wrapped around the entire structure. He summoned from deep within himself, himself; at the epicenter of his being was the wellspring of all he could ever possibly need to face everything in the world. Once arriving there, he stepped purposefully, like an impregnable force entering the hostile territory knowing assaults may come, but he would deflect them as if he were a shield. He called out “Julia” when he was at the door and knocked a few times; when there was no answer, he tried the handle; the door opened, being unlocked. He was glad; had it been locked it would have created a difficult situation, requiring smashing things; he preferred to go about activities by leaving no trace of himself, no obvious trace that is. 

Upon opening the door, he stepped in and waited for his eyesight to adjust before drawing any conclusions from the partial forms he could perceive. Once everything fell into order, he began to interpret the parts. Julia lay crumpled upon the floor; her body appeared lifeless, immobile. She was out of the reach of the direct light from the broad window overlooking the waters in the distance with the green and brown vegetation before it and the blonde sands of the shoreline, from out of which stretched a dock, to which was affixed a small motorboat, despite the unseasonable conditions that only had shellfishers coming in with the day’s haul. He knew they’d have their full buckets to the limits if not a little over; the shellfish warden, who’d inspect them, would give them a pass these days, knowing the market prices had plummeted, and a little extra wouldn’t hurt anyone, but it would help the shellfisher live to see another day. The canvas by Julia was full of all the elements seen out the window; when he looked at it, he was amazed by it because from in the canvas he felt a great living animation; even stranger to him was that he observed from in the sky overlooking the land and sea a living being embracing it all; the living being was visible not through any objective sense; it formed strangely within his own mind, and he saw it in there as if it came from him and it was reflected back at him from the sky, like it was a mirror of his vision, but the vision was inspired by the landscape painting itself. The phenomena was peculiar and engrossing, enough to cause him to become preoccupied with it before checking on Julia. 

He was patient, and gradually stepped closer to her; when he was near, he knelt down on the wooden floorboard, polished with dark knots like eyes. As he knelt by her, he wondered if this was it, the last work, the self-sacrifice, the going out in the blaze of it, like praying and dissolving oneself within the prayer. 

“Julia, Julia,” Beetle whispered to her. 

He placed his hand upon her upper arm, in hopes of bringing her to life again. He placed his finger by her nose and mouth to detect air. He thought he felt her breaths coming and going.

“Julia, Julia, wake up,” he said, summoning her from out of her rest. 

He didn’t know why he was bothering her, if she was resting; if she was resting, she needed the rest, but he had to know, had to be certain; it was the whole point of coming out to find her; he felt like he was in a crossroads of realities, and he could effectuate an ultimate naked reality.

“What are you doing here, Beetle?” Julia asked wearily, softly, as if from a distance. 

He was unsure if she had said anything or if he was merely imagining it. 

“I came to find you,” he said. 

“Why on earth would you do that, Beetle?” she asked using the same weary voice. 

“I needed to see you again, to feel you again, to know you were–” he broke off, and put his final expressions in the hand upon her arm, which she felt and moaned in response to it. 

“I’m just so tired, Beetle. I stayed up through the night to finish it. Do you like it?” 

“It’s so good, Julia. I could look at it for hours and never grow bored; it has a real active presence.” 

“I’m glad.” 

“Have you had anything to drink, anything to eat?” 

She subtly shook her head, indicating she had not. He looked around the cabin for anything. He got up and drew the water from the well, and filled up a glass after rinsing it out. He brought it to her, and sat her up to drink from it. 

“Thank you, Beetle. It tastes so good.”  

“There’s nothing to eat here,” he said, but almost asked it. 

“No, there isn’t. I didn’t want to weigh myself down,” she said. 

After she drank the water mostly, Beetle placed the glass near them on the floor, and they rested a while in silence, filled with their emotions intertwining like vines.

Joshua Sabatini was born in Hartford, Connecticut. In October 2002, he moved to San Francisco, California. He's currently on retreat in Katama, Massachusetts. His 2023 published writings include “Jack and the Trumpet” in Rock Salt Journal. In 2024, he published "Cosmic Harmonies," a collection of 49 haiku. The author can be reached at JoshuaSabatini@gmail.com.