Tuesday, March 11, 2014
(Continued from page 1)
I discovered a single black-eyed Susan in bloom in the half-light created by the cover of the shed and the trees beyond. I saw where the ants had been working frenetically all summer, their mounds and the sawdust remains.
But mostly I witnessed the light, the intensities and layers of it blending into each other and awakening in the late summer forest a thousand shades of green -- almost as though it were early spring and the leaves were just coming to life.
They are on their way out, too, the first fall changes revealed in subtle yellows and a few leaves discarded from the birch. I was sitting in an old, old sanctuary, and I knew it, the temple of creation and all the natural piety there.
I did not stay long; pilgrims must move on, even if the destination is uncertain and their companions few. Still, I felt blessed standing in the light, slit as though refracted through a prism or as if bobbing on the surface of the bay. I paused and praised the gods of mortal form that endure, even if changed. I silently spoke my prayer, my petition, my credo: Let these live on.
I sang within myself a hymn of wonder, then wrapped myself in marvel, and humbled, offered up my alms: gratitude and whole-hearted greeting of the day.
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