Full moon between hemlock boughs. The hayloft is warm and quiet. Somewhere a candle is being lit. Somewhere somebody is composing a new hymn. I am grateful, and my gratefulness travels. And when the moon is hidden, the moon reappears.
There are no secrets. There are no mysteries.
I pray and my prayer becomes images of my father, and the sorrow of his own healing, how it broke upon certain interior stones and could only go on in pieces. My brother, my killer. My fellow hunter and herder.
Something in me is lycanthropic now. Murderous. And given to trouble.
Something in me is dying and doesn't want to go where it thinks death leads.
Is it in fact the case that suffering arises from a case of confused - of mistaken - identity? Blue jays scraw viciously down by the compost, and one wonders at the tenors of the world that are lost because our vantage point is so limited. Liberty and death are not the only options.
Dreams through which one rises as morning brightens, much like surfacing in moonlight. The world is full of kisses and our joy is not a mirage.
As stillness and other abstractions raise me like a pretty hot air balloon high into the Light of Love.