To date, my favorite plate from children's literature: the centerfold of Gene Zion's The Plant Sitter. The house became so full of the organically originating abundance that the walls fell off. I've posted it here before because I can't get enough of it. It's such a beautiful metaphor for some kind of Taoist practice of identifying with your essence and being fed and fulfilled by that gossamer elixer that drapes, sustains and saturates life to the point where all armor and peronality-identificaion concepts and devices fall to the wayside. What color is your parachute? Who cares. When you get to the heart of it, everyone has the same parachute, or no parachute at all, just a long, sustained plunge that inverted becomes an ascent.
Spirea, with buds forming. From spire, shoot, flame, sprout, a stalk of grass.
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