There is a wearing down
that comes to my me
as I stand knee-deep
in a stream and cast
out
over my right shoulder
into the deep and
moving
waters. It is the
wearing
down I love the most.
I release the digital
apparatus my brain has
merged with in the
daily
grind of life in this
modern
age of speed, agility
and
robust communication. I
am
set free to communicate
with
my own me. My heart
listens
to the structured dissolving
of
my me into the nature
of my
earthy wet
surroundings.
I become the splash
and the ripple;
I become the hawk
and the screech.
I become the sun
and the cloud;
I become the wind
and the aroma of tall
grass.
When I stand this
deep in the river I
know
the place from which
the scops of old sang
their songs and lore.
Taliesin became a
trout and stag
with little effort
or suspension of
belief. You cannot
not feel yourself
take on the space
of all you feel and
see.
The me I felt I
knew is not the me
I feel myself become;
you can not be a
human without losing
yourself to another
form – at least once.
Falling to the river
bed I am become the
moss and weeds
gracefully
blowing in the downward
pull of the water’s
call and
gravity of motion.
I am the Mayfly
awaiting
being consumed. I am
the
quiver of the fish as
it
strikes the line. These
little
dyings are nothing in
the
grand scheme of all I
have
become; Rumi was right –
“What have I ever lost
from dying.”
The sun dips
slowly behind the
stand of trees on
the far shore
and I feel the air
turn quickly toward
its falling. The night
is a ways off,
but you can feel
its steady approach.
Everything has a
rhythm to its expansion
and contraction. Can I
wear
down the me I think I
am
enough to feel it as
the me
that is becoming?
image by Zachary Johnson-Medland
No comments:
Post a Comment