Last revised March 16 2008
It is early spring,
the morning was warm and clear. In the afternoon the wind rose and the
sky grew dark, then there was a furious rain. Now, as evening falls, the
thunderheads have blown away, the air is soft and humid. Surrounded by a
subtle light, the dark contrasting buildings topple into an onrush of
goldly glowing clouds. A legion of gulls are swerving high and diving,
through my open window I hear them scream up there. But now their cries
fade and recede in the deepening blue dusk. It will soon be too dark for
me to see the
page.
And in this dusk I
imagine finding myself in a forest, in the early morning, after a night
of rain. The earth is washed clean, I breathe its sweet fragrance. And I
by being there, by witnessing the still and silent leaves with their
tender burden of pearl-drop rain, and the dark wet wood richly colored
in the morning light, I too am washed clean, I am quiet
inside.
One can be cleansed
and renewed by the wind, by the stars in the black sky, by a person’s
touch, or by the song of a river, with its choir of a thousand voices.
One is then given new life, but though it is discovered as something
new, really it was always
there and waiting, ready to be received.