Atoms stack themselves, one upon the other, in the shape of my intention until the thing is made real. Real and palpable before me: heavy branches, thick with meaning, dripping with whispering green. I touch them with my hands, marvel at my own creation, the pulsing light of divine collusion passing from the rough bark to my fingertips, my palms flattened against it.
Why is it so hard to sit with our creation? Study its striations, its nuances of color and texture? Why do we deny its perfection before we even explore it? It is because, I think, what we articulate in our minds rarely resembles the outward manifestation in the ways we expect it to. I dream a tree and then turn away from the willow that grows overnight in my yard. Never mind the miracle of its engenderment--I dreamt a pine!
No. I will love this willow up, read its message like braille, intuiting its likeness to the seeds I held for so long in my heart, until my knowing encompasses its perfection, until it teaches me all I wanted to learn from it, even before it broke the warm earth that enclosed its slumber.
Why is it so hard to sit with our creation? Study its striations, its nuances of color and texture? Why do we deny its perfection before we even explore it? It is because, I think, what we articulate in our minds rarely resembles the outward manifestation in the ways we expect it to. I dream a tree and then turn away from the willow that grows overnight in my yard. Never mind the miracle of its engenderment--I dreamt a pine!
No. I will love this willow up, read its message like braille, intuiting its likeness to the seeds I held for so long in my heart, until my knowing encompasses its perfection, until it teaches me all I wanted to learn from it, even before it broke the warm earth that enclosed its slumber.
Love it! Beautiful. Perfect.
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