The wine trunk madrone. The pregnant rock that reminds me. The wood that knows how to bend and burn. Does it know what it will become as it surrenders to be consumed? For the sake of light and warmth? No, those are just byproducts...it knows only the moment of each newly dancing flame...
And how many before me have warmed their blood by this sacrifice, this bliss, this fearless, steady dance toward ash? And inside is hot fury, ever hunting the next vein of breath, smoldering, smoking, exploding. Will I ever be this ready? Will I ever be this willing? Will it be a decided ax that will hurry me to peace?
Here from my relaxed perch on this stone, enjoying the abundance of light and warmth, how can I not make a surrender of some kind in this company? Some kindling of a spark? And so I am filled with gratitude for the wood & the flame & the wind & the moon who casts a bluish glow on this tungsten earth. I waited patiently as the knots of anxiety unraveled & I am glad to arrive here alive. I heard my own voice here & that is all I came to seek. How lucky to be satisfied.
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