It is foggy today. Birds caw
loudly. The sky out my window is spongy. I discover a bungalow I haven't
noticed before, gray and white shuttered. The roof is gray with a green
tinge and a turret.
I am a looker, always searching
things out, I suppose, even at forty six. I am still trying to find myself.
Common sense says people should look for themselves as youngsters but such
self-indulgent nonsense should be abandoned by middle age in the name of
maturity. I reject that. I hope I am still trying to find myself when I die.
The inner landscape of my soul is vast, with an endless supply of new
geographies. I want never to pitch a tent, or build a citadel, and announce:
Here I am. I have found myself and will wander no more.
My wandering mood fits well
with the fog outside. I allow time to slow and search out a new rhythm in
this daily writing chore. A slow, foggy, syrupy and voluptuous indulgence in
the inner voice that slides about in the slippery fog of my reflective mood.
I am swimming idly in an ocean of words and images, a Caribbean of the
spirit, warm and gentle. I feel my mouth curving in a gentle smile and even
chuckle out loud. I dive beneath the surface of the warm salty sea of
consciousness and glide about as a merman with the sleek skin of a dolphin
-- gray -- like the turreted bungalow -- swishing my back side and soaring
along the fantastic currents, careless of the surface world with its
changing weather. It is silent. It is a sighing silence, a sort of soundless
sound, a chord to perfectly harmonized that the sound becomes inaudible,
transparent, transcendent. Not outside me, but inside, a balanced hum which
is everywhere -- sound and silence itself. It is consciousness. It is the OM
of the Hindus, this drumming ocean in which I rest and which I also
energetically investigate.
Pop! My merman surfaces, and I
gulp with delight the moist air and kick my human legs. Sound once again
becomes sound, differentiated. Birds whistle, traffic passes. I am back at
my writing table and see two pages filled with ink.
Out my window, I notice a gray
bungalow with gabled green roof and a turret.
