These are tough days. They are full and burdened with the details, without the thriving witness of a warm blood-filled body. Reaching for the shadows you get spun, turned around in the nexus of teamed reality. You got to swim out of the eddies to see the swirling surface in order to swim the right direction. To order life, to separate light and dark, is then, an exercise in seeing connection and practicing the art of differentiation—this is an upstream paddle. This traversing is endless, no arrival because we are constantly touching down and lifting a foot forward. To walk a straight line, one foot is planted the other lightly leaning forward. Also, the right and left halves of your mental energy have to coordinate to move forward. Walking is creative movement surging forward within a structure—its like life is best lived as a song. Deep, tuned to the harmonies the worlds echo around the cosmos.
Everyday, the eternal chorus of the heavens awake and reel. The buzz of my bike tire howls a tune. At the curbside the world dies into fall, bright and rushing full of leafy messages of the season’s passing. The colors change and die out in variety, yet, in coordination, all bowing and fading toward decay. I bow with them in these bitter tough days, bent over, avoiding the turn toward self. But I’m restless, leaving time to its own ticking, looking pass the chronology of death toward spring, the climax of the song. Resurrection, fertility, raising, greening sound fills the heart of creation. It is a bud ready to blow out of idle space into fullness. It must hide itself in death for a while, trusting the structure that turns the world, God tuning reality to the soul of love the seasonal celebration, fullness.
