about my life, this life,
our life here and now.
I want to tell you
about the storm last night,
how the friction of rain on the roof
sang in a throaty steady moan.
I want to tell you
about the tinkling of rivulets
coursing in the downspouts.
I want to tell you how the sky
succumbs to the gurgle of gravity.
I want to sing the back beat of cool clear
water coursing in the gutters.
Today I want to tell you
about the tree frog
with his song like a
He sits beneath the eve
watching what I watch,
dressed in his jacket
of fluorescing meadow green.
May I point out the ocher-brown
wedge around his eyes?
He's like a prince
at a masquerade ball.
But he's not like anything,
just himself, sufficient.
Have you ever felt the pin
prickles of spitting rain upon your face?
What about the fresh waft of clay
and field grass after a storm?
Or the song of wind chimes
dancing like twirling dervishes,
the fairy tinkle,
the clack of wire against the house,
the rise and fall of so many bells
that even the frog must sing along?
That was this morning.
And if the frog must sing, so must I.
If the sky must share her bounty, then so must I.
If the morning reveals secrets, then I will revel with you in the mystery.
The magic of writing is that it can transport one to the image of what another experiences. But it rarely really totally takes you into the place of another. Words are reflections and reverberations of the suchness of things. Still, a writer, or an artist or anyone alive must sing along with the chorus of life, even if just to get the hint, the flavor of beauty or truth.
If you don't sing your song you lose somethings precious: like being present with what is and sharing that with your own particular voice. Perhaps you could lose even your hope and trust in this one precious life.
All the words we say and colors we paint are attempts to recreate what is. Imperfect attempts perhaps, but worth the effort. Worth the sharing. Whatever your day is like, take this moment and be present. Take a snapshot of the moment into your body. Transmute it. Share it. We all need more reality of beauty in this world.
Will you join me in the mystery of what is, now, here?
I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.
I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I've been circling for thousands of years
and I still don't know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?
Rainer Maria Rilke
Book of Hours, I2
(c) Copyright January 2015, Words and Images, Rick Sievers