"A word, A memory, an idea......"

"Unto dust thou art and unto dust shall thou return"

There are those moments where, one must write to escape, and if not to write to think of writing, so that the hand of others perceptions, that lie on the throat of the soul and the chains of introspection that keep one motionless, can be removed.....and breath can be restored......we all need to breath darling, that's living.

It was a hot summer afternoon and all that was and is, was happening as it does. Yet I stood in the midst of routine and time, a doorman.  It was neither my routine, nor my time frame.  Only my time...framed. It seemed very sensible to take this moment that presented itself and give the mind a chance to meditate. So, I changed and set up a little camp at the bottom of the yard. Willing my mind to be still and the ever present uninvited resident of "pain", to quieten.  (A captured audience is always very dull.)

Below the warming rays of the sun, I felt it stream across my errant skin, in defiance of a sickness that has cloaked me under it's burden. I lay as one who was whole.  Stretched the length of my frame to feel the weight of the ground beneath me; ever aware, that I am just a journeyman here, for days and lengths unknown.  To feel the earth, my sweat begin to gather,  touched by the current of air that lies between soil and sky,  is to break the grasp of the mind and live in the current moment. My flight of fancy is a gasp of air.

Just the thought of what might be, time to write, or dream is to efface all that I fear. As words begin to flow and thought takes form, it is as if the caged door flies open. So typically I look within and without to see who or what will shut it. That feeling that you are being watched. As if ones transcendent third eye has taken over the role of a captious inner voice. Those moments do happen.  (I believe they are a learned response, a little re-wiring can fix.  We are all poised for flight.)

A word, A memory, An idea and the world around me becomes transfixed. Then all rushes forward in its own creation, the senses, awakened and the abyss, that great void becomes bridged. To dance across that space, untouched by time, where the cosmos truly is within a grain of sand, such is the gift of words, the healing strength of ideas. A mind alight with possibility. It sits in the frailty of its very existence, burnished in the light of its strength, its totality.

Voices drift down from the window, of obligations, duties, deadlines and the little spell is broken. All the while that nagging feeling of being watched, never dissipated. So I take a peak, in case...in case there is deliberate weirdness. Over my shoulder walking back and forth just out of my peripheral vision, struts a curious Pukeko....a blue and orange/red swamp hen.

Also a journeyman here, apparently,  he arrived to New Zealand's shores about 1000 years ago.  Known for his awkward landings and takeoffs, This invader has been found on distant islands across the pacific and is known to be a great long distance flier over seas.  Another interesting fact about my intruder of thoughts...when threatened, "they will often walk away from danger rather than fly".

 Is it a sign? or did he just come to rattle my cage?