They said she had hope of a mustard seed.

At the Omega, mustard seeds weren’t quite getting it done. The Mother had to plant “hope” like weeds, fields of weeds, producing seeds so small they could be carried on the wind for miles and replant themselves abundantly with no assistance. Survival, and hope for it, became cumbersome in the battle for Life, when “breathing” and maintaining “temperance for the inner Sol” took everything she had.

Self replicating hope, the first fruits for our pollinators, edible flowers, medicine.

Men call them weeds, yet despite how much poison they spray upon them, they refuse to die.

Thank you Mother, for giving us these sweet fields, reminding us of your love, and effort to brighten our day, down here at ground level, to remind us that even those “flowers” mean men call weeds are SO … MUCH … MORE.

A’ho
Wado