We have to go outside to get to our bedroom, so at least once a night I’m looking up for stars and moon, which makes me wonder about, you know, the space between here and there and beyond, and what the true nature and substance of God and the planets and galaxies might be, whether we are God’s cells, for example, or are alone. Anyway, I find myself reaching up, thinking about higher purposes, and wanting to know what mine is, or yours, if there is such a thing. Wanting the best in me (and you) to shine forth. I want to be fully awake.
(Actually, I don’t look this glamorous at night, as if I’m wearing make-up, and in real life the dressing gown looks more like something I share with the dog.)
Then I get into bed and my thoughts join me down here. I want to be warm, free of aches, to be held (or not), for there to be no earthquakes in Christchurch (or here), for my children to be safe and happy, for there to be enough firewood and food for winter. I want to be lulled to sleep.
4 responses to “The vertical tug”
Magical moments, Prue. Or perhaps, rather, especially real.
We have to go outside to reach our bedroom too. It’s the moment I have to be careful not to miss, especially if the cold night air is overwhelming after the warmth of the open fire. I listen for wallabies thumping in the forest and ring-tail possums with their bird-like whistles. Sydney – 90 kilometres away – is spread out on the horizon. To go to the bedroom is to step closer to the rainforest. The rainforest is the other.
Yes, we’re always sniffing for hints. Right now I’m off to gaze at the eclipsing moon descending into ash cloud. Red as blood. We shall all be changed.
Higher purpose is often on my mind, with no dressing gown at all and seldom make-up. The route to such knowledge seems to be through silence and in the silence, a hint that each next small act to which I’m directed may be a piece of the greater meaning.