Mud and Flux
A gray wet windy middle of March in New England. Both inside and outside feel like they’re in flux.
I’m starting this blog as a net to catch the images that are barely there. Driving alone, the way the curve of the road opens a funnel of sky between the hills that lifts you into an exalted memory, from this lifetime or another. Like the two beats of the bald eagle’s wings you see crossing over the highway, not quite believing, the feeling is a brief visitation, a message that can’t be written down.
When it comes, I am sure it is common as sneezing. Human self-righting design. Sneak peeks at a spiritual GPS while on a quest called Life, across the steppes of Amnesia. It doesn’t matter how long someone holds back the curtain. In a split second, one has seen the Outside.
Something is coming into view and I don’t know what it is.
“I do not know what it is I am like,” the Rig Veda remembers as the impetus for the world. In the few precious moments of death-defying clarity I’ve stumbled upon in my life, that which saw through my eyes would have said such a thing. But it wasn’t speaking.
Under the saddle bags of strategies for physical survival, I feel my horse spirit ready for more wind.
Mud and flux.
