It’s time to dance, to be joyful, and to honor the spirit
into which we have been born.
A few days ago I trekked through an alpine meadow complete
with a gurgling stream straight off ice melt, with plants and little flowers
hugging tight to the earth. I saw what
the wild wolves see. I was at the base of Mt. Shasta.
Now I can’t think.
Ray Bradbury had a sign by his desk. “Don’t think.” People call that nebulous something various
words—intuition, the internal knowing the muse, the Holy
Spirit, God.
I sat on the mountain in a secret spot dangling my feet in ice water until
they turned numb. I thought I had
something to say—to be a communicative wolf, but then I came down from the
mountain.
It will take a while to integrate I suppose. To articulate what I learned. Maybe nothing,
maybe everything. Maybe seeing that all creatures and non-creatures are imbued
with spirit—the trees, the water, the flowers, the rocks, the little raccoon
that wanted to look at me, but didn’t want me to look at him, that giant old
Grandmother tree that fell to the earth, is crumbling, providing shelter for
the little ones, and mulch for the ground—soon it will be soil.
I got it that human beings are not warring, sniping,
sniveling, petty entities by nature.
That has been drummed into them, conditioned into them, taught to them. Human
beings are love, expansiveness, beauty, and children of a divine creative force.
Let’s dance.
Joyce
