Meteorology
I am walking home through the fog, and I am thinking about the color of rain. There are not so many vessels in the world that can remain whole while completely without material makeup. I ponder this as I walk, and I suspect that I may be such a vessel.
There are only three truths in this life: truth of word, truth of feeling, and truth of action. Only one of these truths has any power and yet this truth is empty without the others.
My rain falls across the land, carving vast swathes that arc with my meanderings, reshaping rock and soil, creating streams, rivers, lakes, oceans. It is something that merely happens, it is a consequence of non-action, of my lingering. I move and my rain falls new upon the land, falling until it is familiar and mine. The ruts of my chaotic patterns weave tapestry, creating new patchworks of that old familiar feeling.
When I am alone, my rain is formless, shapeless, but undeniable in the relentless physics of its presence, terraforming the world into a reflection of thought, of time, of what I allow my truth to be. There is an easy, general greyness that pervades if there is no zephyr wind of spirit, sprung from heart’s jet stream. The gathering weight of mind’s clouds conspire until a cabal of rain is unleashed and the valleys become deeper, the rivers fiercer, and the abundant land divided into ever more discrete islands.
There is no wind without light; it is merely phenomenon of energy.
Occluding cloud fuels the rain, a cold furnace feeding on the absence of energies, boon of coursing waters which return to sky once again, a natural cycle, a chainsaw of fluid energies, cutting effortlessly through mind’s clever armatures, deep into the root of heart’s yearning.
There is no brutality in this action; it is as passive as a dandelion, awaiting the unseen winds of fortune to reshape some small reality. It is merely a happening.
The vessel of my mind waits, filling with water, silt, snow, runoff, channels, beaches, islands, waves, and tempests.
However, there is little truth in this grey waiting.
When light burns a path through murky labyrinth of lumbering grey, my form is expressed, my weight given shape, my valleys rendered verdant. All manner of cut stone, once submerged in cold rushing of mind’s flows, are revealed, reflecting the secret knowledge of their forms upon one another, bending chaotic flows until they fly from my source; the crystalline sanguinity of my prism alights, drawing found refractions from within to emanate profound colors, sensational brilliances, and, sometimes, piercing, burning focus.
There are no clouds to obscure heart’s transmission when light is so abundant. There is naught but the thundering perfumed wind of Love, cultivated by reception and made only to give, dancing upon all the shapes which once loomed so ominous in the cold night of Alone. Fearful symmetries known only by cautious touch, recoiled from as if acidic in their iciness, are revealed by light to be that which I had so long forgotten land was capable of being: the acreage of the mind becomes not tempestuous, cragged sea but rolling, life-giving green, forested by trees of warm, dense heartwood, populated by every imagination of being, each with sparkling uniqueness and full in its passions. There is only one blooming energy, yet it is energy without true form, as it is feeling, it is action; it is the word Love.
In this way there is no longer a vessel, for the formless material of my makeup is merely the conduit of giving. There, within me, light overflows, spilling outward into the world, ecstatic abundance projecting in all directions, alighting others as another alighted me; a see of stormy minds made luminous, a diamond network of lighthouses, calling to lost seas, hearkening to vessels of all shapes and sizes, iridescent proof of the sacred Pangea within.
I am home now, on my gentle seashore of mind’s rolling green. There is a Springtime of warm and delicate light, soft in its unfolding and undeniable in its magnitude. The stagnant storm is a distant memory, told in ancient tales of creation, with naught but whispers of how such masses of land could be formed by mere water and cloud and time.
A radiant sun of Truth shines upon me, but its radiance is not mine to keep, nor could I ever hope to contain it, for the warmth of the land cannot help but radiate outward. I am filled with photosynthesis. The new life flows through me, electric, illuminating the vastness of space around me, revealing the true lesson of life in its perpetual motion: the nature of any vessel is revealed not in the holding, but in the transmission of its contents.
With this, I close my eyes and flow.
