I’ve been watching it build a bloom for weeks. The orchid on my shelf beside my shower. I’ve come daily to warm cascading water, where I shampoo and follow the evolution of round, white petals, swelling with promise.
And then one day, surprise! A delicate flower has unfurled, completely open to the world in full potential. Beautiful in its delicacy. Testament to certain destinies fulfilled.
For days after the opening, I’ll gaze to its arching profile, as it faces open air at the end of a long, thin stem. I’ve been smiling quietly to myself in a love for flowers. Intricate blossoms gracing days of rare occasion.
I thought I’d been looking. I really did. But yesterday evening I realized, I’ve only been partly seeing. My hand reached out to the orchid pot, giving no more than a quarter turn. Suddenly a new angle revealed. The flower faced me fully, revealing even more beauty than I had known was traced inside its feathered petals.
Ahh. How just the slightest tilt can show a whole new world.
the mind is
confined
to an alphabet
trying to express the essence
of a feeling
limited
to an illusory line of time
a flat world
of past and future
really
there is only now
in all
its multi-dimensional geometry
a present
we cannot yet fully receive
grateful for what i can glean
I am a curious reporter
asking questions
taking notes
feeling sensations
passing through thresholds
delving in realms
not yet defined
by curving letters
or ticking clocks
Like the miracle of Moses parting the Red Sea, Rex unexpectedly offers four days of Jeb time and suddenly I’m a woman in an empty house with open passage. My to-do’s get checked and crossed. Mornings are spent in my turquoise kimono with golden sun and extra time for words. I spend my evenings at the River House with long-time friends and belly laughs.
We make our way into the Village where the sleek restaurant/bar pulses hip, downtempo beats over bodies milling in black. I see humans hoping for minor blessings. Servers ready to go home, hopeful for big tips. The guys at the bar scanning, wondering if they’ll see a new face in this small town.
A local divorcee faces a woman squarely, four knees barely touching. The hand with his tattooed wedding ring will reach to brush her in a gesture. He’s eager with the prospect of leaving the past behind. His hands planting themselves upon her with more certainty as their glasses empty. Patrons smile approvingly, they know everyone needs love. We all seek saving graces.
courtesy of Wikipedia
I drive myself home and ponder the inexplicable. The sun miracle at Fatima. 1917 in Portugal and thousands of people brought to their knees as the earth’s central star danced the sky with multi-colored hues. Their bodies blazed in penetrating heat. The multitudes were pressed to the deepest humbling, at the mercy of the cosmos. They crossed themselves and readied for certain death – this was the end of the world, for sure. And then, just as suddenly, the afterglow of stillness.
The sun hung, just like it always had and they were left to mingle amongst each other, reverberating in phenomena they could not fathom.
As I steer myself to my abode, I sing off-key and loud with Julian Velard‘s Bjork cover tune. My low-lit house greets me, where I’ll leave the dishes in the sink for another day. It’s time to rest in open spaces. Slip beneath soft sheets. There’s no fanfare here. No walking on water. But divinity is present. I feel the miracle of the greatest something in this nothingness.
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