Wednesday, September 2, 2009

When You Have Traveled On . . .

When you have traveled on one day, out from this bright eddy on the stellar stream to another then the next, you’ll stop a while to sit with strangers by the evening fire, to join the talk of where they each have been — and it shall come your turn to speak.

At first you’ll wish to hear more than be heard, telling them you are a seed that has been scattered, only that, and not so very far. Though they’ll see past that cloak of weather to the light you are, and urge you to say more.

Then you’ll tell them of that place where you once lived, so blue and white, where light and dark took turns across the sky and colored bows sent shafts of fire out jagged through the air . . .

Then scattered jewels.

Some will nod and say they’ve heard of it; though others only wonder at your words, and ask what else was there.

Then you might tell them
of the moon that winks, and hides, and puffs its cheeks. And how the sun goes wishing it might see the water’s face, so veiled in salty lace.

Of that cloth of flesh you wore, so fine, and how you wept as it was stripped from you when it was time to go, then laughed to feel the touch of Source along your greater skin again.

A mirage of Self so compressed inside a bubble's mirror-separation-trance, ever fearing for release though also wanting it. Then free again when the mirror broke.

They’ll try to take the concept in, of a world so moist and round with air.

For they've been trapped in ice or stone perhaps, debris-eddies of the cosmic stream, awaiting aeons’ turning to be free at last.

Oh you could boast, though you do not, for all the envy you encounter there beside the fire. Speaking softly-low to tell them of the green on blue at dusk as birds fly to their nests, and the gold that sheds its sparks among the trees at dawn.

“And these!” As you unfurl your pockets of bright pearls retrieved from your deep dreaming there. All you could grasp as time’s brief well ran dry and you began to wake. Crying out for just one moment more, and one more breath, to gather up the shadow-shards as they began to crack and fade and fled.

All watch amazed as from each pearl a plant unfolds, each leaf a memory of sensation and emotion's work, the weather of the heart. So many curling mysteries for them to gasp and marvel at.

But what sense shall those who eddied out their lives in rock conceive of this? What shall the ice know of forgiving’s task? Of love, compassion, generosity? No matter, they've caught glimpse enough; gone scurried off in search of that blue ball where feelings thrive as, “That way,” you project a thumb.

Alone by the fire at last you ponder it: How life’s bright tree had planted you, its own seed upon the landscape of the world. How its dream took sprout in you and then grew high beneath the sun.

How you imagined that tree’s dreaming was your very own.


By James Saint Cloud
Please return to: