Saturday, December 29, 2012
"Life is liquid, cleansing, nourishing. I lie in the white mind of the universe; knowing what I know, it knows me. The fruits of the land are abundant. With the quick, bright blade of spirit I turned new ground, planted seed. I struggled with the donkey. Beneath my hand things happened - grapes and wheat. In time I drank wine and ate bread. The field ploughed feeds a man, the spirit cultivated nourishes. I keep one eye on heaven and one on earth, following the seasons, walking the rhythm.
I lie on sweet hay. The sparrow's song cuts the silence. I hear it now as I heard it ages ago. The birds are gods. I carry their song in my belly. I'm carried in the egg of silence. Even now in the long pause of possibility, quiet beneath its shell, there rises a wild honking, long flights against an autumn moon, smooth eggs waiting to be laid. An old man lying in a field feels embryonic.
Learning peace itself is a struggle. More often I know the air as it whips my face. When the wind is still, I forget the wind. Walking through town, I turn longingly to the mountain. On the mountain I gaze back on the town. When there's much talk I withdraw into silence. When it is quiet I strain to hear some song. Having no trouble, I create some to keep the day interesting. We misunderstood the quiet. in the heat of the day I seek shadows. At night I praise the light of stars. The moon grows legs and wanders through an old man's heart seeking some dark corner to inspire. At midday the gods walk through town invisible as cats. Only children and wise men know the difference.
Even night and day struggle, make peace between themselves. We call that beautiful sunset and dawn. In the spirits of men we call it a state of grace. Unless the earth enveloped the seed and the seed struggled against the darkness, there would be no corn. The moment we are born we begin to die. In each death we are born again. We take in the air and the air escapes us. Call it the breath of life. I no longer call loss disaster. It is the empty heart waiting to be filled. From the act of love, two bodies straining against each other, there rises the star of children. After opposition comes unity. Knowing that removes the sting of failure."
from the Egyptian Book of the Dead