Slow stream is bumping me downstream in this makeshift boat of found objects, with an undercurrent that is about to flip everything around in lunar tidal show coinciding with the fork ahead. Careful now--flow, flow, flow--steadily pouring us into deep, quick river. Are we ready? Soon I will be a fish swimming upstream since steering is near impossible and it is time for shape shifting--I want to jump in now as longing is acute, but it is premature, and I am sure to drown in an imperceptible assurance of ability that has yet to prove itself and move beyond danger. Patience. Hold me steady and place my hand in yours. Where to? Together we can tarry the night and heavy matter that oft holds us fast. If only this rudder was less a ribbon and more a sword, but then again, now we can slide over this drop, sailing freefall to the beauty below of white water and smooth stone.
Embrace the moment, breathe, and hold on.
Sometimes I would like to see the Other in the here and now. Thinking about dimensions in this world. Shadows being two-dimensional reflections of our three-dimensional world. And what about the three-dimensional world? What does it reflect? 3-4-5-6-7...spaces unseen except in musing and a second sense of knowing, tasting, believing.
It is time.
Time to allow opening up and immersion in holy water and holy fire. Cleanse and purify. Make ready. Become a welcome door post for entry into this room with table set, sweet smell of feasting about...but where are the guests? Wait. Wait. Wait. They are coming. I mustn't loose hope of my intuition that told me to prepare, make ready, FOR THEY SHALL COME.
How long do we wait?
We must keep everything warm and the lamps burning.
In all this I long to see Tarkovsky's world. Feeling like I too am here in this house in wait, flowing in and out of time. Waiting for the physician to come over the field. Hands passing off gifts, tongues shaping words to linger the mouth and be given, to help steer the next moment. The next door.
Dust of possibility lies in beautiful cups on my icon table. The promise of Beauty. A waiting that I can open.
Now.
So I shall go and justify the means with an egg. Yolk of incubation. And incubation released.
Funny how the alchemy of mixing paint can propel my heart to open wider. Bringing the two together: this dust and malleability through line, stroke, curve, finding love. To reflect in pools of color gentle clouds, light, and layer the sounding board of God's promise.
I can be an instrument.
I can wait.
I can learn to steer this boat.
I can keep warm and ready.
I can open the door.
I can see them coming.
I can feel the dawn breaking on the plains of the Great Cathedral.
I can taste vision.
I can make vermillion.
I can illumine.
And here, now, always,
Sweet hope.
