Before light was invincible it was narrow, slow, and obscure. Even so, the ocean has not always been raging, unrelenting love. And me, I am not good. I’m not decent. God knows I’m beneath all of that.
Yet, were the ocean dense light crashing holiness and goodness onto the shores of celestial nebula, you would see me eclipse it all. And you will. You will see galaxies bend and distort to hold me together. You will hear of how the immutable laws of the universe lose their way and in that stead you will know me to rise out of darkness.
Sounds cease, and I am safe and bright. I am invincible. I am full, fast and known in unrelenting love. Amidst these common spectacles our hands and eyes reach up, our hearts melt into our souls–we are fixed on God, clear and full.
i am by myself
I am by myself. Light is disappearing quickly. I’m getting back home. Earlier, I had had this thing inside me. And so I needed to be alone. I needed to see a part of the river no one was looking at. It’s a cold day in November as I make my way home. I am by myself.
Earlier, sad people sat with me. We set the table with a blanket and gently placed our broken memories, betrayals, our losses, and unforgiven wounds. We sat on firm benches, and everyone sat solid and upright. We ate together and my blanket made a nice tablecloth.
Later, I had gone for a walk. I had sat next to the river for quite a while not really thinking much about anything. Nothing. I hadn’t realized how nice it felt, or how long it’d been since I had time alone, or how long I’d been there. I stood up and stretched and talked to the air. I wasn’t thinking about things. I was breathing in the cool air, feeling the sun on my forehead. I hadn’t noticed my arms let go of everything, my breathing slowed, my fingers and hands turned soft. I hadn’t noticed that I had let go of everything.
I hadn’t noticed I was no longer alone. A sound, a shadow shattered it. A celestial silhouette, and so I turned quickly. There was something. It must have been there that whole time. I crept closer. I looked intently. I couldn’t make it out. It’s a shape, an etching of a shadow, a silhouette. It’s a sound. It is good. And the sunlight, the river, the trees, wind–the nebulous shadow–the shape steps slowly–out of the sun–fully, completely–little by little the colors fill in.
I’m by myself. Light is disappearing quickly. I can tell you the story about what happened back at the river. It’s a bunch of things. For me, it is a bunch of things. Indescribable, surreal.
I’m by myself in the thickness of everything. I’m getting back home as the light fades to night. I’m relaxed—unusually relaxed. I’m in no hurry. I’m not going to get lost.
There was a whirlwind of commotion. And so I ran to the window and opened it. That wasn’t enough. I went for the door, for cool wind through my messy hair and the texture of coastal clouds, and… but there was a little piece of mystery. I tripped over my feet and caught the counter. Chaos and commotion, a whirl-wind of waste, and all I could think about was Andromeda.
All I felt was joy inside my walls while the floor began to buckle and the ceiling sagged. I knew particularly, I’d find Andromeda. I knew particularly well, I’d see the light of Andromeda. It could be the zenith. It could be the pinnacle. It could be a real place.
The cool wind broke through this messy cave with no windows, no light. I took Andromeda to a spot. I don’t know which spot. I sat on a stool, lifted my hands. I crafted clay in the air until it was beautiful. I drew on all our affections and on our most sacred songs. I sang out past the sky.
The rocks all around me dissolved into the saltwater. Except me, I fell asleep, my messy hair resting on the coastal clouds and just the moonlight reflecting broken beams off the calm ocean ripples.
i woke up early
This night, I woke up early. I had fallen asleep where I always do: in the field of moon flowers, between the river and the steep ascent. The night was at its zenith when I set out. I crossed the river on big rocks. The silhouettes of the trees shook and swayed as I pushed up to a ridge and over it.
This is different. On the north side mystery saturates everything. There are no moon flowers, and it’s hard to see. But it’s quiet with the river gone. I can hear the mist falling down over the pines. I can taste the ferns it rests on with each breath.
A faint deer trail leads me down to an open field. I’m brought to a dim light held by a slow figure.
I ask, “Where are the people? the places?”
He’s wise and honest but tells me he doesn’t know.
I ask him again. He says, “I haven’t seen anyone else out here.”
But he’s wise and tells me something about the night and something about the warmth of the fire he holds. I’m not sure what it means.
He points west, “There is something just beyond that hollowed out oak. Nothing for miles past that.”
sea of green and swirling blue
I went to the edge of the expanse, climbed high and looked out. The sea of forest green grew up and around me, bold and strong. The sky, blue, knelt down humbly—hues swirling in and out of an indescribable marble landscape. There—placed before this thick arching web, past dry and still silhouettes—in the warmth of the sun the forest danced with the wind and rain—a cold world. I sat up there and watched a while. I tried to sing, but I wasn’t any good. I laughed; in disbelief, shook my head. Running and laughing, singing and smiling I came down. Gently I knelt. The sea of green and swirling blue, the dancing… the rain and the wind.
I’m by myself. In the thickness of everything, I’m getting back home. In the darkness, by myself, I’m slow. Exhausted. Weak. In the thickness of the midnight garden forest, I’m getting home. Soon, I’ll recognize things.
I’ll be home, again.