In the end it is perception itself that interests me, the infinitely variable art of seeing, the way our senses turn our heads- and hearts- about.
Loren Eiseley
A universe far younger than its years greets our eyes at night. The searing beauty of that. I have only to turn my gaze slightly when my false self is lulled into sleep or flat knocked out, to see the divine; God in creation all around. We are in that stream in each moment if we will only look and listen.
A Bob White calls out in the distant tree line across the hay field, adding to the skein of divinity by his singing and I by my hearing. The ground of being calls out in the breeze that barely dings the chimes; in the thick humidity amplifying the tractor engine weaving over the hill; in my simple breathing coming and going, here, now.
All night the Oriole kept
Calling out
Waking to him
Beneath the overclouded moon
Singing into the thick leaves of dreams
And thicker solitude.
Out of the darkness he sings
Pulling me out of mine
Limned with moonlight
This calling out
To the Lord.
No comments:
Post a Comment