I’m here to find the simple truths that I knew as a child. The dogs make a game of me, the cats curl and sleep upon my body. The daffodils await the rising of the sun. They draw their color from the world arriving. The world I watch now takes its color from the setting moon.
These February trees excite me. I crave their dark and frozen zig-zags, the hardened lightening strokes of trunk, leader, limb and branch. They pierce the moon, seem to snare it, over-lace it, hold it fast – but look again and the moon has moved. The bare trees darken further at the rising of the sun. My hands know this simple way of waving and releasing, too, but too often I want to hold onto the passing things. What is this restlessness?
A candle burns inside the house. It represents things I cannot name. The spaces in the weaving, the colors I have yet to see. It also speaks to me of the way that fear takes loving hands and turns them into weapons. The mysteries of anger, joy and sorrow, love.
Here comes the sun. A mockingbird screams. A shaking leaf transforms into a mourning dove, an explosion of flight. The river below has the look of ice, spilled from the dawn and frozen.
And what of intentions? Do they spill from the sun, from the moon, do they rise out of the wide space in between? Do we find them, recognize them, or create them? I need gloves; I type without them. I need money; I work. I need love; I share it where I can.
Every tree, bush, stone, dog, person, is a mystery deeper then I can fathom. All the particles of being dance to a sound the whole makes. I am only a moving part of the dancing machine. Oil me, I am squeaking. I try and tune myself and listen. I try to catch the rhythm and move deliberately, in keeping with the pace and pulse and measure of the music that moves through me. I think more of my ancestors, I say, “I love you”, more often. I look differently at my mother, my father, my son. My friends are intriguing, strange, mysterious and enchanting. My hands absorb and hold the sunshine. I feel it circulating. The moon makes me turgid. It rocks me. In the rise and fall I see the flotsam and jetsam of my life. Wreckage and raw material are the gifts of the currents and tides. We draw beauty in with our eyes, and our senses. We find it and recognize it. We hold it up and name it, call it our own. We set it down and wonder where we left it. There is beauty in hatred, love, grief, and war. In the way the morning comes, the people go. Fear and cruelty are passing. Love carries and bears up under it all. We all know this. Our stories will be spun out, and all our stories, all that we have ever known and done will be recycled. No other thing makes sense.