Monday, 10 June 2013

The Day's Reflections

The days of summer drift in on rain clouds.
The year has taken me thus far from Edmonton to China, China to Thailand, Thailand back to Edmonton,
then to Oklahoma, Louisiana, Mississippi and finally onto the home soil of Ontario.
Too seldom have I taken moments to pause and breathe and reflect on time gone by.
Too few times have I walked across the field to one of my favorite place of reflection,
seated on the rock that sits before the forest.
A small bush grows beside it and vines clamber their way along it.
The rock is big enough that I can sit with feet dangling in the tall grass where bugs take the liberty of making a jungle out of my leg hair before I swat them aware for their itchy intrusion.
There, on that rock, I will just sit with paper and pen on my lap and, without fail, I will write with the inspiration that always travels on the breeze moving across the fields
and through the small trees growing just outside the forest.
The small trees whose leaves always shimmer when they shake
and whose song that they sing is always in tune, pitch perfect.
More than a few birds cannot resist to join in the melody and each,
with distinctive voices and even different songs,
 join together lifting one lyric together that moves me.
It always moves me upward from where I was when I came to that rock.
Upward beyond the present pomp and prejudice of stimulants designed to distract us from anything of real substance. Fleeting, momentarily satisfactory and pleasurable voids.
So unlike the song lifted up by the divinely created.
To one in love with the Creator, the songs of Creation, if allowed to percolate through you, is an amazing way to be lifted upward into His gaze; how sweet the sight.
I think that a good sign that you were truly present in a moment is if you can dissect it, even weeks later, and relive the phenomenons of perception that you experienced while in the moment.
The green shimmer of the leaves in the wind and sunlight is the most clear phenomenon I recall,
and how vivid it is.
How strangely easy it is to bring myself back to that spot with the use of this one memory.
The power of an intimate moment.
Power to draw yourself, almost as if out of body, into another place of a time gone by,
perhaps longs gone or perhaps merely only a moment ago.
If I were not careful though, I would be thankful for these moments and their power
but I would do little to replicate more by actually allowing the stillness of the heart to set in on a more common occasion.
And thus on that note, I must bid adieu.

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