Beltane and the Shadow Mountain Moon
Tuesday gratefuls: Getting that budget thing going. Joe’s work. Joe, transitioning to nights for a two-week exercise. Seoah, shopping yesterday for clothes to wear to a first time gathering of Hickam Korean women. Murdoch, his paw on my leg. Mary, her journey. A hard one. That old Hawai’ian magic. Early morning bird songs. A lone woman jogging on Apollo Avenue.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Red tinted puffs of Cumulus in the northern Sky. Attention shifting toward Shadow Mountain.
When have you ever taken a risk and had it turn out bad? Rabbi Jamie’s father to him when he wondered about moving to Colorado from his Buffalo, New York synagogue. Yeah. When I calm all the way down, resurface on the shoreline of a new Island, risk taking will be number one on the agenda.
This is no time of life for the faint-hearted response. It demands full attention, open eyes, a heart/mind tuned to receive, not send. Because, hey, how much time is left? Not sure, but it’s a hell of lot less than I had at twenty.
A Hawai’ian Sunrise blushes its way toward a gray cloudy Sky. A dewy petrichor perfumes the Air. A song Bird announces: Morning, Morning. Aurora. Aurora. A complicated melody with one, maybe two backup singers. A Maxwell Parrish palate in sight and sound.
The temperature, 75. A slight breeze. Picking up a bit, coming in off the Ocean. Carrying the Water’s temperature. Moisture. A Cattle Egret, harassed by a Mynah Bird lands. Breakfast comes in all forms. That Brazilian Cardinal swings on a low thin branch of the Monkey Pod Tree.
Stopped writing. Experienced the Sky lose its blush. The Bird’s song changed, less urgent. More playful. A clear light. The darkness has gone. But where does darkness go when the light comes? What was it? Only the absence of light or a thing in itself? Because our eyes work better in daylight, we privilege the light; but, if we were nocturnal, creatures of the night, would we wonder where light goes when darkness falls?
When a good mood comes, where does the bad one go? I suppose that’s the Buddhist’s point. Nothing is permanent. All maya. We come, rise up from the darkness, blush the Sky of life, then fade away as night falls once again.
So ephemeral. Life feels solid, ongoing when we’re young. When will it ever end? Never? Maybe, just maybe. I might be the one. The first one. All maya.
Reminded of the Mexica poem: Life is a dream between a sleep and a sleep. That might explain multiverses. As we sleep, we dream Worlds into being, inhabit them for awhile, for the dream’s duration; shift positions, come once again to the REM cycle and another Universe blinks on. So detailed, these dreams.
Morning has broken, just like the first morning. Creation recycles, too.