We had our first snow the day before yesterday—a sticky-heavy whiteness you could tamp into stable shapes—then a smattering more yesterday, and this morning I am witness to wonders I realize only now have been in the making for days. The third act is the revelation. Soft golden light pours sideways across the sky from a low-lying sun, and the second ridge is garnished with fog. The air and the land are rising together, drawing thin. Closer by, bare trees in the yard are tipped with orbs of flickering color—beads of blue, red and green that twinkle and dance, then fall to the ground in lengthening streaks of glowing yellow. Beneath the trees, it is raining.
But only there.
There’s a meaning in the scene that fills me. I know what is on display, but its history eludes me. The raining tree is a dictionary of potentials. I realize each instance of beauty is only a clue, a hint of far greater conspiracy. The part I can’t piece together is what I’ve always been, effortlessly, alongside of everything else that’s always been. The tree is losing its colors and I’m passing through myself like a spring breeze, bubbling over, transforming, a hot breath condensing into steam.
A sparrow finds an opening in the sky, and settles on a slender branch. The next leap will involve dissolution. We watch together, wondering who will leap first.
On the best days, I am given a thought that transports me to this edge. Yesterday it was a pink flower, resting on a platter. The platter was my chest—the sensation of giving, a hot stone emerging from an oven, the presence of beauty. These thoughts convey the conspiracy. They are the wordless blood that passes through us. They rain down from the tree, and find us in the elevator, motionless, in the stairwell, or balancing on a log at the beach, our arms stretched out towards the sky in both directions.
Thoughts like these, images imbued with sublime potency, remind me of endless configurations of light and being. Of smiles. Of whorls in our fingertips. Of touching the horizon. Of all of us, drifting down from the sky, to cover the world in our quiet presence.