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I'm dreaming sea
It's Christmas morning. More pieces of "Chasing Spring" emerge...I think...
I woke this morning thinking about the transmigration of souls, and the connection of that swift ecology to the hydrological cycle, that planetary breath of our ubiquitous mercurial water, whose pattern trumps mercury, in that mercury - so wedded to itself - blends with no other thing, but only flows like unto like, while water - so wedded to all - covalently shares itself throughout everything and trusts in the Cycle to bring it once again whole, and back to the heart of all water's source.
Have you ever wondered why a wave stands up in a river, but flows to the shore in the sea? Or why a leaf floats down a stream, but circles one bit of foam in the ocean, while the waves pass, almost irrelevant, beneath it?
For this is so, and it seems well worth the time it takes to train your mind to see the differences, so standing on a bridge and tossing sticks that float into the stream, and watching how they go between the waves, the standing forms that have no stuff to them and go no where, is useful for the comprehension of the universe and knowing, in some tiny way, the patterns of our soul.
Likewise is sitting on a shore, or wading out into the rocks at lower tides, to contemplate the foam and drift that lets the water's wave pass underneath without a glance, and all around the world, on every land, at every shore, this is exactly just the way it is - a grounding thing, this constancy of pure dichotomy.
Right now, I sit here typing, this particular embodied part of me particulate, articulate; I am leaves and twigs and soft downy swans floating on the surface of this stream of me, swirling around as this pattern of organ, flesh and bone - the pattern not the stuff of me, but rather just the standing wave the stuff of me still dances on, enduring in the love of it, entranced enough to stay.
And still the stuff of me falls, incessantly, towards the gravity well of some far-off source that even from here I can feel, sometimes, when the moon is right and I'm not too preoccupied with how well, how right, how fine is the leaf I watch floating down the stream.
Streams always start dry, and at first it's only the stuff of air that scours their someday banks, the coolest north slope breezes and post-noon shadows' dark that craft vague hints of this future river's trail between the waiting stones.
The air streams down through tiny canyon rivulets to be, and in this the air is "stuff", and the wave forms that the eddied air soon spirals in are barely there - much less than air - yet still the reins of air, the shape of air.
Water masses. Water falls. An accumulated chill of nights throughout the world combines with Earth's coy turning toward, and then away, from this life's star we call the Sun. This coolness pulls the mists to ground, and solar energies stored tightly in the freedom dance of clouds that range throughout the atmosphere begins to adhere into "sphere" and fall, fall far down to water's waiting form.
I think it's true, and yes, perhaps there is an archetypal form of each and every thing - an ocean where the pattern lives so purely that it isn't seen - as one friend says, one hand within two lover's hands, a single kiss within two pair of lips - and all the stories of its archetypal possibility flow down from mountains filled with all the rain of it - the rain of all potential touches, all potential kisses, all potentials of the streaming form of it, falling down into the pool of it.
Down into the pool of it.
And it's this streaming into sea, this rising back again in microscopic fits of mist and jet and flume that ride on sun and white bird's wings, flying up toward heaven's way and - chilled to icy bits as we go nearer to our star - we, heavy, slowed, fall back again as rain and find some other mountain's face to cling upon and then embrace, sliding down the graceful sides of her and warming, melting, flowing once again as rain, and then to stream, dreaming down, down into the pool of it, always down into the pool of it where all waves live as dream.
This writing is shifting into something different than it was when I first started. I try to hold it loosely, to call it "my book", or "my story" - some name that lets me speak of it, the form of it, without defining the stuff of it; some name that lets me poke and prod and catch the stuff of it, without encasing the form of it.
Sometimes my words are leaves in streams, passing the constant unceasing waves and making their way to the sea. Sometimes my words are leaves, floating upon the constant and great moving waves that define the way of the sea. Always my words are leaves.
The words don't always work as "story", but I know they're parts, not wholes, and so I resist the urge to tamper - I grit my teeth, and send and store the light just as it comes, trusting in some unknown synergy of it, further down beyond a bend that I can't see around.
I won't apologize, though sometimes I feel like I should, as if I'm tromping paints throughout your living room. I don't know much else, nor why they keep coming out this way, nor why they keep coming out to you, nor anything else to do about it but write them and send them and trust in the way of the sea.
PLUR. Remember PLUR
-- Anonymous, December 25, 2001
-- Anonymous, December 26, 2001