Whites Are Always Warm in Winter

I am thinking that once the novelty is cast from the sheen, I will go back to taking photos and painting pictures on the backs of old business cards instead of acting like a channel for a muse that I hardly know.  But until that time happens upon me, I will continue to engage my muse in the hope that what ever is the blogosphere will find me, or I it.

In the meantime, today is about letting in love.

I wonder at & and marvel that we are  what we are —  the  human condition.  I wonder at the awe that can strike me like the sun hitting upon the lake and reflecting an ice blue light between the frozen naked branches, then bathing the entire scene with milky white clouds of winter.  How can this abject prettiness sit just outside my window, and I remain cold inside though warmed by the fire of wood burning and crackling as it spreads an aroma of chestnuts and maple and oak through out the house.  How can wonder and amazement sit side by side with a longing heart?

But it does.

The human being and its jungle like mind spreads itself through out all of creation.  It squirms into corners meant for rodents and bursts forth into the open air meant for the free flight of an osprey.  It takes me on distant rides through ancient memories and meets with ancestors long dead, then it sores to new villages where I have not yet been and it introduces me to ideas that frighten me to death then summersaults and catapults me into ideations of grandiosity where I fall to sleep for a time and awaken to yet a new moment and yet a new dimension to this acrobatic life of mine.

All this and the wind howls across the lake and stops the swirling snow at my front door.  The new awe is that I am so close to the searing cold and yet my beating heart is here inside the warmth of a living body–the form I have carried with less and less grace as time has had its way with me, surrenders yet again to the moment and the immediate next and I breath and listen to the bell chant and I enter stillness and thank whatever and whomever there is to thank…

All that I know is that it is not me.  I am not the source.  I am not what i am thanking.  I am not that to which I am grateful, whatever that is is not me.  And what I have come to learn is that I must let it in.  When I open my consciousness to the realms of nature, I adore the oneness that I receive.  I am both the thanker and the recipient of gratitude at the same moment.  I open my heart and the beauty and the grace that I just saw outside my window enters through the windows of my soul and I breath in and I breath out and I listen to the stillness and my beating heart within and I know that i am and I am not all at once.

I enjoy my impressionism, my lilting rose and robin’s egg blue light that paints itself onto canvases not yet produced.  I am eager to find my eyes breathing in a hue not yet perceived in just that light, in just that way.  Who gave me this.  Who turned on my mind.  Who controls the switch that suddenly let in the light, the photo-lightness of being.  Who gave me that perfect swatch of cardamon yellow that blends so well with the light rose hue of a spring morning at dawn and lingers until an early evening sun setting just beyond the horizon to the west in mid-winter.

Thank you for the colors–thank you for giving me the opportunity to write with light.  And thank you for letting yourself in; because I would not have known that there was a not-me to let in.  I might have mistaken it my whole life & thought that it was me.  What a shame it would have been to miss out on knowing you, you my adoring colors of day, and you the midnight blue barely imperceptible from the blacks.   I have found you all, the colors, the smells, the touch and taste,  the sounds of nature clamoring for recognition, begging to just be let in from the cold to where my heart sits warmed by the wood fire near my chair that is poised to look through the window and the windows of my soul.

Thank you for my consciousness, for giving me the desire to awaken and watch without the urgency as all that you are unfolds in front of me and gently and — not so gently, invites me to be one with it.

And when I can–I do.

And when I can’t, I don’t—-

But always now I know that you are there, eagerly waiting for me to become the wind with you and push the dust of snow here and there in mounds and stick, blanket white against the frozen bark.

Whites are always warm in winter.

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