There seems to hang a film of light in the early morning air of this September 6th, a thin veil of particles suspended in the breezeless humidity. As if emanated by the tall, old trees I pass that wait to loose their autumn splendor once again, the soft gold halo enfolds a fresh layer of reality, the realm of what is to be: the coming day, the coming season, the just-beyond. The trees hold the tension, do not haste to what they must know, in some sense that supercedes my limits of understanding, is coming - the time of brilliant color, then release. Rather, they breathe from where they are to where they are to where they are, ever-present and ever-faithful (apart from any self-righteous faith to which we humans grasp) and ever-becoming, without hindsight or forethought.
As my feet step one in front of the other, walking under a canopy of oaks and maples, passing the dogwoods and crab-apple trees, their stillnes brings me to pause. On the precipice of my myopic vision, I see in the distance - or dream I see, in the muggy heat - a gentle shimmering, as if an unfelt breeze has disturbed the portal to a reality imminently close, but in a direction fatally foreign to me. The grainy apparition is clouded by the sheer glow of this pink day; I blink, and it is still there, but no clearer. I glance around as if the wet pavement or rows of houses could offer new perspective, to no avail. The trees are soundless. Though their unseen roots are gulping water from last night's rain and the pores of their delicate leaves are pouring pure oxygen into my lungs - although they exist undeniably in my physical presence - they also, I feel in the tingling quiet, live in a place to which I have rarely, if ever, been.
Oh, to have that deep knowledge of a life lived in an upward direction, then immobile, yet omnipresent; to regard this moment, as I stand in their wake, as parallel to the time when families in the 1940's were moving into these new homes, or when surrounded by cool forest in all directions before Europeans came, or when first breaking through the hard shell of a seed to the rich, damp earth; to live in this world and another, and to perhaps know no distinction between them; oh, to radiate light, and a constant invitation to pay attention to the possible hanging thickly in the still air of this and every morning. I continue walking my linear path, thirsty for the gift of submission to now, now, now.
Later, the pink morning yields to blue; the branches sway gently overhead as I sit on my porch. The sunlight is clear and unfiltered, distinct and bright. A breeze caresses my cheek and moves my hair. The trees seem to speak, This is our world, too.
- Written 9/6/2012