(no subject)
A few nights ago, I was running, lodged into the rhythm, when something drew me out of it.
I glanced and saw it on one little place, and then, like the hero in a horror movie whose eye catches on one body or streak of blood and then pans out to discover he is surrounded, I saw it in everything.
It was a quality and color of light, a texture of time that I think I haven't really, really noticed more than a few times in my life. Maybe I need to learn to pay attention.
It was on one little pine tree, bushy with tufts and lumpy in its overall shape because it hadn't fully grown. The needle-tufts were watercolored with an orangey-orange golden light that was at the same time shafted, partitioned, and also glowing, encompassing.
Sounds suspiciously like evening-light, I know, but I know evening-light and This wasn't it. Evening-light has just the slightest sense of fatalism in it--the vibrance with the all-too-well-known grey chilled quiet of evening lurking just in the underhues.
This light had no fatality, no waning, no excess of brilliance or whisper of grey-- only round glow that drifted and was tickled onto the tufts of everything with a paintbrush.
It was all around me, I noticed. Dusted between the blackish-brown, almost-straight-but-slightly-gnarled tree trunks, defining but not quite silhouetting them.
The woods were still, almost reverently so, except for little murmurring waves of breeze through the sea of ferns, like a swaying ocean of wheatgrass. For a few moments I could feel a great vibrance, a great still and quiet fullness around me. It was as if, simultaneously, the whole world was with me, and I was the first and only one in the whole of eternity.
I lay down on the two moss bumps that form in the middle of the two-track road-trails and just revelled in it, whatever It was.
I was all ready to run home, but something just wouldn't let me, wouldn't let me miss It without letting every drop soak in before leaving. So I walked freely, contentedly, joyfully home, but with the feeling of fluidity and reverence, not wanting to upset the quiet balance of whatever hung in the air.
These are my holy moments, loves.
These are my holy moments.
Is it all in my head?/ Is it all in my head?/ Could everything be so right without me knowing?
I glanced and saw it on one little place, and then, like the hero in a horror movie whose eye catches on one body or streak of blood and then pans out to discover he is surrounded, I saw it in everything.
It was a quality and color of light, a texture of time that I think I haven't really, really noticed more than a few times in my life. Maybe I need to learn to pay attention.
It was on one little pine tree, bushy with tufts and lumpy in its overall shape because it hadn't fully grown. The needle-tufts were watercolored with an orangey-orange golden light that was at the same time shafted, partitioned, and also glowing, encompassing.
Sounds suspiciously like evening-light, I know, but I know evening-light and This wasn't it. Evening-light has just the slightest sense of fatalism in it--the vibrance with the all-too-well-known grey chilled quiet of evening lurking just in the underhues.
This light had no fatality, no waning, no excess of brilliance or whisper of grey-- only round glow that drifted and was tickled onto the tufts of everything with a paintbrush.
It was all around me, I noticed. Dusted between the blackish-brown, almost-straight-but-slightly-gnarled tree trunks, defining but not quite silhouetting them.
The woods were still, almost reverently so, except for little murmurring waves of breeze through the sea of ferns, like a swaying ocean of wheatgrass. For a few moments I could feel a great vibrance, a great still and quiet fullness around me. It was as if, simultaneously, the whole world was with me, and I was the first and only one in the whole of eternity.
I lay down on the two moss bumps that form in the middle of the two-track road-trails and just revelled in it, whatever It was.
I was all ready to run home, but something just wouldn't let me, wouldn't let me miss It without letting every drop soak in before leaving. So I walked freely, contentedly, joyfully home, but with the feeling of fluidity and reverence, not wanting to upset the quiet balance of whatever hung in the air.
These are my holy moments, loves.
These are my holy moments.
Is it all in my head?/ Is it all in my head?/ Could everything be so right without me knowing?