Pockets of Purple

As we spoke, two owls called out to each other in an almost-dawn. How soft their sighs; how easy their coupling. Sometimes it is the sound of a voice that helps us see in the dark. Certainly blessings abound.

Yesterday's hummingbird finding faith in every sumptuous pocket of purple.

Beck sent me a photo of a praying mantis he came across on campus and said, “I thought you needed to see this.” It made me think of someone else I know who would do something like that, thereby tilting the world a bit closer to the sun.

Turkey feathers, penny-sized crickets and a ghosted cicada shell still clinging to the porch screen. September rises like a heavy autumn moon and all I can think about is how Vermont might look in October. Should I have given in to that feeling of jumping off the cliff into the river that day? I was wrong about nothing really changing. Something has moved. A willingness to be open to what it means to join Love's flow is now the only light I see. Everything is on the table. I am born again and radically wide open. That's something new.

Planting milkweed. The purity of is-ness clings to my fingers as they long to elicit the touch from what is next. Every cell dancing. Every night sky star saying, “yes, me too!” Every lover wishing they had even the faintest whisper of this knowing.