Each morning, just before the sun rises,
I enter the forest and take my seat.
I listen, ears and heart attuned.
And when the morning's song emerges,
I hear the sounds of eternal success, the sounds of what works.
In the shimmering leaves
and on the dancing tiny tongues of the waking songbird,
I hear the sounds of what has always worked,
the sounds of what will always work.
I bathe in the symphony that rains down from the forest canopy.
As I sing along,
I do so, not to change Her song or to revise Her story,
but to nourish and protect it,
as it has nourished and protected me.
What gives meaning to meaning-itself?
What gives meaning to the substance that connects one moment to the next?
Does this substance demand anything in exchange?
Is there a ceremony owed, that weds the past to the future?
Could this holy matrimony be given in this very moment,
that this moment give birth to the sound that becomes a song?
The human is a story-creature.
If left story-less, in a desert-of-meaninglessness, he withers.
He withers because a moment by itself offers neither a song nor a story.
He withers unless he can wed the past to the future.
A story-creature's keen ear will hear the distant melodies,
millions of bountiful years
singing themselves far into the future.
These melodies are a gift from the past,
a gift of what works,
a gift given to a future that shall.
I come alive each morning
when the past and the future
are blissfully wedded.
A million years of reception-cheer
in the sounds of what works,
in the sounds of the forest.
In celebration, I join in song.
Comments