The purity of nature, untampered
by man, allows my eyes to open widely in wonderment, my ears in earnest, and my
heart in holy joy—holding me glued as if bonded by the natural world’s mystery
and the ever-unfolding majesty of the high mountain llanos and mesa of New
Mexico, reaffirming my love for this particular place—for this particular
landscape.
When skies thunder, booming
solidly followed by electrical schizophrenic flashes juxtaposed against rain-saturated
blackened layers of May storm-centers over my 120 year old adobe home and onto
my chicken-proof gardens, whose fences, today tilt catywonk from neighbour’s
cattle leaning hungrily towards my greener pastures, my heart leaps in
joyfulness. Thrills surge upwardly from
the pit of my stomach, outwardly from somewhere deep within my being, into the
air, the skies, throughout the forests---saying “Hello, I am at home with you
again. Thank you.”
It was God speaking to all
of us—the cattle, sheep, coyote, mountain lion, badgers, skunk, squirrel, and
bear—all the wildlife and domestics, dependent upon the rain god, the mercy of this
higher being, blessing all of us with Spring rainfall that just might hold the
animals safely this season if combined with yet another God gift—a mild spring
transition free of a late freeze. They
could not bear yet still another season without acorns, gooseberry,
chokecherry, apples and wild plum.
The evening clouds hold
concert time in the eastern skies—skyscraper tall and broad—hanging
motionlessly curled, like Tibetan figured ocean waves stylized and brilliant
white. Blue skies cradle the billows
until pink tinges stain the lower skirting, spreading like watercolor pigment across
its newly moistened page.
At once mesmerized, tuned to
the visual acuity of this unfolding sky, my senses draw yet again to another
wonder—the silence. The abject stillness
not only in the grandeur of boundless skies, with banks of sun-setting-clouds,
but a quality of stillness that assuages my inner channel—the tiny bones in my
ear drums, that no longer feel tired or drained, but at peace with what they
knew—what they know--to be at one with myself.
The lightness of heartbeat,
so slow now—the in-breath and out-breath, as gentle as the breeze that hangs
softly as the Spring cottonwood fuzz that floats downwardly, slowly, until it
reaches its place of purpose. All senses
imploring, yet settling in step—into the rhythm with the earth and sky—this
land that I have grown such a kinship with these past decades—the moments of
awe it opens me to for my sensual feasting and awakens the recognition—my
ancient memory of what love means and the beauty of loving in all moments.
Kat
14 May 2015
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