Early Saturday. Sun still stretching. Ensconced in a chair downstairs at an open window. I look out and the tree in front of our home giggles. Did sparrows tickle the toes, or the breeze? Toss the book I was reading aside. It’s displaced by a subtly inserted thought. ‘Knowledge does not rest in books, but it may rest in them, light like a bird on a branch.’
Seize pen, rough sheets, as I write it down, a shaft of slanting, morning light catches the paper. Bringing a troop of light and shadow, leaf dancing and gold catching the fur of the page. I stop struck. As I bring the point of my pen down again, I am in for a greater surprise. The light hits the metallic shaft and throws glorious reflections. As I write it turns into a dizzying arabesque.
Before the words, like heralds, go rippling shimmers. Behind come hard angular shadows. My mind ponders: If before me the universe strews light. And behind me is that which is ruled by gravity and shadow. Then where am I? Something deep inside me goes ‘boing’ like a Japanese mega drum.
I am at the cusp between light and gravity. We are at the point where possibility turns into experience and experience into fact. Busy nose deep in the textures of life, we don’t notice the shivers of light we send out ahead. We are not privy to how light turns heavy, becomes physical, is the ground we walk on. We don’t see that the moment, beautifully arrayed around us in all its incredible detail, comes from the stylus of our being.
There’s a feeling that we are chasing the light. That we can catch it. That when we open the fingers of our being it will still be there. I open my fingers. It is here.
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