A common space for harmonic peacemakers
Soul is a presence alchemic inside. At home in twilight, it lives between light and shadow. Soul is not purely and only light.
It loves the sway of umber-bark trees, danced mantic by wild wind, shapes of stones, the little whispers of water in motion, the ephemeral beauty of moth and butterfly, the tender, whispering joy of flowers, rippling rings of rain in muddy puddles, or atop small ponds, floating the fallen red leaves of autumn, under a lightning rippled sky.
Perhaps for this, for the passing-sweet tokens the soul treasures and gathers to share with hovering spirit, we have evolved into what we are—ambassadors of dreamtime and the poets of creation?
Everybody, of course, knows of this at first, the open secret known by only a few. Rilke got it right; he sang to the ink. And offered his book of hours to God and the angels.
These latter, drawn by the scent of rosewater and the sticky buzz of honey, dip their wings in the dark spills of longing, and turn to us to feel the emotions of mortality.
16 Nov. 2011