…a joyful flame

The trees are almost bare now; some linger on like the ornamental pear, some trees still covered with  brown leaves like wood filigree. Leaves are scattered in the streets, on pavement and along an embankment in the park. A few greens and yellows remain, orange and scarlet have all but washed away leaving browns and on the edges mush, decay.

Still however the patterning mostly remains. Swirls, scatters, pointed and round, long and flat interwoven. No deliberate human action has contributed but wind, rain, the dynamics of falling and spinning, of wings alone or twinned, cross-flow of drafts, rain drops as rudders, drying of wind, warming of sunlight and liquid swirling of all that floats in downpours.

If you look in a certain way the precision of every scatter is absolute. Beauty is not in the beholder, the misperceiving collector of objects, is wild in the purist wildness, the clearest sky filling all rooms with an uncontaminated outside. Filling those minds most, containing the least furniture, a joyful flame burning away the artificiality of inside/outside.

There seems to be an undeniable perfection in these scatters across pavement, asphelt and grass. You can walk along and not see that for hours, years. Then something happens and it’s obvious. A patterning of infinite variety, an undeniable purity of exactitude in which apparent randomness cannot escape such pristine ecology of order.

The richness and beauty of anything if looked at with ardent gentleness, a touch soft and inclusive of all perceivable like blue air upon the round earth, shows our own stagnant retreats of old thought and overplayed emotion. These are brought to light quietly without confrontation, with judgment or approval riding the backs of reactive thinking, all eventually disappearing into the background of watchfulness, an open day and free heart.

Default places we sink into or soar to in pure illusion to remembered or imagined times and places that exist not, flow in the current of awareness revealing leaf patterns of past summers, the decay of winters that cannot then stop green furls and blossom scent of spring. All this, it would seem, reveals the miracle of renewal alive at the marrow of consciousness, untouched by human thought, surer than any technique traditional or otherwise.

“There on that scaffolding reclines Michael Angelo.

With no more sound than the mice make

His hand moves to and fro.

(Like a long-legged fly upon the stream

his mind moves upon silence.)”

It has been raining for hours from low heavy grey stratus clouds, then unexpectedly the oblique winter sunlight breaks through making all southward facing surfaces smile and glisten. Long stretches of grass become green flames, for a while an entirely different feeling is brought to the world; light ablaze above the clouds enters this day briefly reminding us of the power of the hidden.


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