Sometimes the answer(s) to the Universe and the strange mystery of my existence at this time, in this place, with this particular consciousness seems very close. A flash of illumination flickering behind the veil of the everyday. So close I almost get it at the same time as it remains as distant as a star.
It happened again this morning, picking up fallen poinciana seed pods, walking to the box trailer, throwing them in and going back for another load. The every day. Doing without thinking of anything in particular when suddenly, like a wash of sun-lit warmth, it is there. Or here.
It is a strange feeling, the commonplace threaded through with Mystery. I am very small and very ego-constrained and very me labelled at the same time as this immensity of Being courses through and around me. And this immensity does not conform to labels or description or words.
Yet it is as comfortable as an old shoe. A reminder that despite the Trumps, global warming, Parkinsons, aging and the house not selling, it really is all right in the end.
There's nothing I can do, or am capable of doing, to enhance it or take it further. Chasing it is like staring hard at a dim star in a black night. The more you look, the less you see. Because it is fleeting and as swift as a white-tailed deer, the only way I can feel it is peripherally; an acknowledgement, a mist of gratitude and love. Then it's gone and I am picking up seed pods and trudging to the trailer.
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