There is a force at work in the universe that guides all things. To imitate this force is called "falling in line with the Way of Heaven." It is the way of this force to yield. It is the way of this force to endure. Holding fast to the "Way," all things are accomplished by this force. The force does not strive, yet all things obey it. Mystery of mysteries, this force is the Mother of all things; mystery of mysteries, those who know it know the Eternal.
~ Laotse, found in THE SPIRITUAL ATHLETE edited by Ray Berry
Before the restoration, it was the colors I watched, blue, red, yellow, green, pink; the architecture, the meadow, the hedges, the water. Now, what I see is light. White light. Color has been absorbed into form; Form is in the service of surprise. It is the light, the throbbing illumination, glowing on the horizon, rippling in the waters, blowing through the grasses, that touches my lips. Something has been set in motion.
The world is holy. We are holy. All life is holy. Daily prayers are delivered on the lips of breaking waves, the whisperings of grasses, the shimmering of leaves.
~ from TALKING TO GOD: PORTRAIT OF A WORLD AT PRAYER by Terry Tempest Williams, thanks to Liz Stewart
Walking home, I ponder about a love of art and I think about my love of the land back home, about the healing grace of wildness, and how difficult it is to articulate why conservation matters, why wilderness matters to the health of our souls and how a language of the heart becomes suspect. I wonder how it is we have come to this place where art and nature are spoken in terms of what is optional?
In the presence of the Ancient Ones, we deliver new vows in whispers by the authority of our own remembered hearts. Standing before these Elders of Time, we entrust ourselves to each other. Our vows are simple, spontaneous. "Yes, we are here to love. Yes, we are here to experience both shadow and light, forgiveness and joy. We return to each other, rejoined. Together we will love this beautiful, broken world of which we are a part."
Before the restoration, it was the colors I watched, blue, red, yellow, green, pink; the architecture, the meadow, the hedges, the water. Now, what I see is light. White light. Color has been absorbed into form, Form is in the service of surprise. It is the light, the throbbing illumination, glowing on the horizon, rippling in the waters, blowing through the grasses, that touches my lips. Something has been set in MOTION.
