“Human life is as evanescent as the morning dew or a flash of lightning.” ~Samuel Butler
Have you ever awoken in a puddle?
It is beautiful, as breathtaking as any sunset, perhaps more. Perhaps one of the most beautiful earthly sights the eyes’ mind and consciousness love to behold in this elsewise strange and maladaptive world. We wonder at how many have missed the nitric kiss of the open sky walking beneath the broiling belly of the upper deep. How eerie to think one shrouded, crouched, and miserably shivering beneath an umbrella afraid to be wet for fear of appearing at work rumpled; how terrifying a fear. What a bizarre worship-ritual of a place is employment. Employment so revered that wetness is reserved only before entering and not while in destination? What is so important about one building over another? The amount of wood? The number of open walled-in spaces? Strange and maladaptive world, indeed.
But beneath the skydome of stars, strange weather phenomena, unusual aircrafts, miles of insects like some kind of organic highway and fractaled branches, we have seen from the perspective of an ant and the view of a god. How is it possible to be biased? To decide for another his fate when we cannot for our own? We would rather skirt the edge of death looking down, than seated at a high, mighty office of judgment. Outside among the elemental earth, after a time observing sunrise to sunset, clouds forming and dissipating, moonrise to moon’s set, ebb and flow of the natural tempo, the humming rhythm and syncopation of the long nighttime in calendars, dates, and tock tick grind of daily routine seem . . . out of place. Not so much wrong, or unnecessary or hated or suffered, just out of place.
Days, nights, and seasons change and move at a slower pace than the alarm bell tolls. Once we have slipped silkily and willingly into the lingerie of time, many other interesting tidbits arise. When lying upon a strip of sandy beach beside a stream for many days and nights, gradually we began to fit in. How did we know this? For we were not some honored title carried about a self like some theatrical display, the elements told us otherwise. Each night we frittered with mice at all stages of life, who stole our food, crawled down Stephen’s shirt, and ran over us as we slept. We were no different from a fallen log, a rock, a pile of leaves. Is this not heaven?
We watched from the ground the behaviors of nocturnal animals who did not seem unnerved by our presence. For sure, we were sensed and determined non–threatening, but we were no more human than a familiar scent.
This was living and we were alive, sipping at the cusp of Now.
*Image Credits (used with permission under CC license)–
“The Perfect Storm” by Michael Bolognessi
“Gone-for-a-paddle (for Bev)” by John Bennett
“Light Years” by Justin Kern
“Mice under a rock” by Cloudtail
“sun flooded autumnal forest” by skoeber