Passion pulsates through the field. Everything is focused on tomorrow. Not the immediate tomorrow that will come with the next rising of the sun, although they dream of that, too.
No, their longing is for something greater and more abstract, something waiting in the mists of future time to find its fulfillment. They dream, the trees, the seeding grasses, the flowering goldenrod, about pushing form past its constraints, giving birth to unrealized potentials.
They dream, as we do, of their children’s children and the ones that will come after them, and after them, the ones who will bring undreamed of wonders into the world.
That is their reason for being. To be vehicles that carry us into dazzling tomorrows, where men will walk as gods and the earth reflect Paradise, and sing with the triumph of love and light and joy.
We tossed our hopes into the sky and they gathered there in whipped cream clouds.
And even though they blocked the sun, dimming the goldenrod’s glow as they sailed past, we rejoiced. Hope outshines darkness every time.
We stood there, watching them race across the limitless sky in billowing heaps, towering like mountains above the trees, catching one another, merging into one pewter dream that stretched from horizon to horizon and sang with wind.
We took it as a confirmation and walked home, Yes falling around us like rain.
A heavy chain stretches across the trail where it intersects with the road that runs past my house. From there, it curves across the valley’s floor back to a rough and tumble camp that an old man keeps by the creek.
It’s his retreat, a place to let his Yorkies romp and to work on the antique tractors he keeps there. A couple times a year he mows the trail. But now it’s mainly a set of tire tracks running through the grass.
I think of it as my private paradise since some of the land that borders it is mine. I walk its length often and watch the season’s change. And although I know it well, it always surprises me; it’s never the same.
But always it is beautiful.
Now white butterflies dart through goldenrod and grasses whose perfumes blend with the scent of the coming rain. On the hillside, the trees begin to don their autumn colors. Overhead, a hawk sails through milky skies.
Yes, always it is beautiful. It connects me to the earth and sets my heart free. It gives me peace, offers me treasures, and tells me wise tales to carry home to share with you.
The red leaf drifts to the grasses below and settles among the flowers just so, called to this particular spot by gravity and breezes.
It is no accident. This is precisely where the fallen leaf belongs, at this angle, among these flowers, pointing is this exact direction.
And I was meant to walk past and to feel the blip of delight as my eyes fell upon it.
And you were meant to be seeing it, too, just so, called here as the finishing touch to this small, grand miracle, wrought for our joy by the Artist’s loving hand.
Time wraps her ribbons ‘round and ‘round the globe, trailing seasons and lives behind her in a train of endless tales.
Some say she doesn’t exist at all. But her markers are everywhere – on rock, on skin, on bone.
Hers is an ancient dance, orchestrated by the stars, measuring their spaces, keeping separate the intervals between things.
She is the grand coordinator, the mistress of events, the weaver of coincidence and synchronicity, the keeper of secrets and mysteries.
Nothing happens without her knowing, and always exactly when it should, regardless of how it may seem.
Trust her. She moves in perfection according to Great Laws that far transcend our understanding. And whether we perceive it or not, she unfolds all things in the right order.
Dawn tiptoed over the hills, leading troops of fairies in a silent morning ballet. Some painted the leaves with dabs of gold and crimson. Some set leaves free to sail across the sky.
Some woke the goldenrod and shook the sunflowers from their dreams. Some fed the milkweed and polished the autumn berries.
The most talented of them danced across the lawn, hanging globes of dew on the spider webs and grasses.
And when all the details were exactly in place, morning carried the breeze up through my window to wake me with the whisper of sweet nothings in my ear.
It seems, somehow, as if it were all but a dream, the long sunlit days stretching languidly across the hours, the bees and butterflies darting from blossom to blossom in the fields, the fireflies of July.
Summer goes all too quickly, a fleeting rush of fragrance and color, a warm and passionate embrace, and then she’s gone.
Nevertheless, she leaves her indelible trace. Beauty such as hers is kept in memory forever and is, perhaps, what memory is for. It wasn’t meant, I think, to hold the pricks and stings, the injuries and sorrows, to give them more substance than they’re due. No, memory was given us as a storehouse for the lovely and the good, that beauty might endure within us even when the days grow cold.
Put your magic glad on, baby. The world needs your sun. You just could be the one, you know, who saves somebody’s day–hauling it out of the gloom pool, setting it on its feet again. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Don’t give me your aw c’mon. I know your power. I’ve seen it action with my very own eyes.
Why just last Tuesday, you turned it on that old dude up on 4th and Vine, giving him that sly wink as if you shared some precious secret just between the two of you.
“Hey, Pops,” you said. And he lit up like a Christmas tree just because you knew he was real.
Here, in this world, there are always constraints: talent, time, resources, walls, the range of the palette, the degree of light. That’s no excuse.
The things that matter—beauty, love, truth—can thrive in the narrowest places and in the hardest of times. Limitations are their playthings, tools of their art, used to differentiate one moment from another, to frame each flicker of the kaleidoscopic flow and showcase its glory.
It’s how they produce drama and isolate the unique.
Look, here between these railroad ties, an infinite story waits to be read.
The enthusiasm that burned within them was not the giddy vivacity of youth. No, this was far deeper and steadier than that, a holy will that burned with the desire to sculpt a perfect, living form, for beauty’s sake. That, alone, was their reason for being, and it drove them.
Yet neither the design nor the rendering were theirs. Their art was to surrender to the Maker’s hand. And their glory was that they did so flawlessly,