Foraging

Jack Gilbert wrote: if all the stars were added together they still wouldn't know it's spring. The silence of the mountain is not our silence.

On March 4th a few inches of fresh snow dresses the ground. Yet springtime birds sing at dawn and my heart cannot stay asleep a second longer. They don't sing for me. Yet the hope and promise of the impersonal flowering of fertility and creation is a force I recognize better than my own face. There is a clemency and grace in nature but do not be fooled; there is also the power to destroy, rebuild, change, nurture and guide. It's not for humanity's sake. It's not for my sake. The consciousness of Mother Nature is older, deeper and more rich than fathomable to any single being, enlightened or otherwise. She causes one to forage harder and deeper than abilities allow. All of this in a birdsong in March.

In the sunrise I see that my landscape is dark wall of an old cave upon which are markings and clues of another time. Something prehistoric. Something un-mappable. The light falls fresh on dim eyes but I am not ungrateful for a chance to see in a different way. In this light I consider the theme of my dreams lately – a large family reunion, messy and chaotic but also, full of new life mingling with old life. I feed newborns and watch the elderly reach out towards the younger generations. Some leave before the party is over and some arrive unexpectedly. Yet in the end, a great storm arrives, scattering whomever remains. It is unclear as to whether I am safe or not. But what is clear is that it doesn't really matter at all.