A night of high winds lightens into morning and after a week of contemplating the sorrow of Haiti's earthquake, I find myself looking at some images of what's really old--galaxies, planets, nebula spiraling, exploding, creating in vast space mysterious shapes that seem like fleeting dream images that made their way from the inner world to the sky.
It provides an expansive respite to gaze at these marvelous images and to rest in studying the vastness of universes, constellations of light and color that are really old, immense, and by our ordinary human standards timeless.
Now the sky lightens into early morning and the wind is buffeting the nearby trees. Another day of being here on Earth in a body. On the Earth, so in need of healing. In a body, growing old. Not really old, not with the broad vision of aeons, like the Ancient of Days, not yet. But old enough to know the transitory nature of this life, its unpredictability and its profound essential beauty.
I dreamed last night of beginning a voyage on a sailing ship. Then I woke to the journey of today, a particular Tuesday. Now it's time for my morning meditation practice, and then the work that's set out for today-- writing the final choral piece for my play, finding a musician with a synthesizer, finding a sound technician. Such finite details.
Moving these finite gestures within the embrace of the infinite. Remembering what's really old. I start the day with a prayer which includes all humans and all creatures and Nature. May all beings be happy.
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