To find the perfect book To understand birdsong To find intention to be For hot water in the bathtub to stay hot while I soak For muscles in my back to never knot For both sides to arrive and be surprised To wait, always wait, in peace To feel enough discomfort to yearn To understand the fine print
Sanctuary began this morning when the first drop of dew formed under the temple eaves, offering a sense of beginning without entering the holy of holies. Throughout the world little men prepare for the day by placing stones on the ground, perfect for unthought people who seek to throw first without reaching. The entrance to the silver mine at the edge of town has been closed, as nothing of value has been found in those depths for persons to enrich their looks or their lives. A sense of beginning establishes itself in the interior space behind the purple curtain where the high priest goes to ask for divine intervention on behalf of the people. And the people awaken once again with sleep in their eyes and a lightness to their steps stirring beyond the rooms of intimating walls where once they had only known themselves in dreams.
I said, "I dreamed last night of an inchworm measuring the distance of our suffering." She said, "Distance times time equals the speed at which things fall apart." I asked, "Do you think creation could have been made any other way?" She answered, "In the space we inhabit change only happens at the edge of where chaos and order frolic." I asked another question, "Don't take this the wrong way but can I have the next dance?" She replied, "Only if you fondly promise to promenade with me all the way down the corridor of time."
I have seen balls turn uphill, neither rolled nor thrown, when the world went upside down. And the streets grew wider making a way for thousands to walk abreast holding hands. Sheets removed themselves from lion-clawed chairs. Food and drink appeared on tables. Warnings turned into eyes wakening, dressing for time captured during the day. And the mudball needed just a light rub or two to become golden.
“If people read the words of the prophets with closer attention, they would find the keys to life.” – Marc Chagall
Imagine waking to the racket of Chagall's green violinist dancing on the rooftops. What tune does a purple-coated fiddler play in the winter to wake the neighbors? Every woke fiddler is green-skinned and wears one black shoe and one white shoe. Awaken from one-footed dreams of flying in purple pajamas.