adagio
Slow driving . . . the weight of the weather somehow requires it as the clouds hang low with the weight of themselves . . . the flutes and violins pick up their tempo just a bit on the radio. . . I glance to my right and am dumbstruck by the simple scene seen so many times before . . . the cattle roaming, chewing, staring from the field . . . it is a freeze-frame moment of beauty and awe and I am brought into mindfulness . . . the state of being that takes each sense and calls for attention . . . where I am going, from whence I have come all fade into this moment, this now . . . it is what I imagine stepping into a painting might be like, but more, oh so much, much more . . . and I am awakened . . . slowly . . .
cesura
Taking my time over the mountain I usually glide past at hyperspeed, I drift down into Monterey where the clouds have risen a bit . . . there on the left – the first house . . . the black cat sits haunched in the grass . . . eyes keen on the thing before it . . . mole? Or just a blade of grass? Who can say? The moment frozen . . . time suspended . . . in that just-before-launch millisecond of feline pondering . . . the cat symphony will reach its crescendo without me as I drift on . . .
forte piano
The wind pours itself into the apartment moving the vertical blinds in a rhythm only it can name . . . sitting in silence, we two hear the infrequent traffic ebbing and flowing, underscoring in the gaping quiet the distant sound of child voices . . . perpendicular to the wind I sit . . . half of my face feels its caress, the other mindless of what it misses . . . strong then quiet . . . strong then quiet . . . feeling more than hearing . . . I am mindful that God’s lungs breathe in and breathe out a world and barely a sound is heard . . .
Slow driving . . . the weight of the weather somehow requires it as the clouds hang low with the weight of themselves . . . the flutes and violins pick up their tempo just a bit on the radio. . . I glance to my right and am dumbstruck by the simple scene seen so many times before . . . the cattle roaming, chewing, staring from the field . . . it is a freeze-frame moment of beauty and awe and I am brought into mindfulness . . . the state of being that takes each sense and calls for attention . . . where I am going, from whence I have come all fade into this moment, this now . . . it is what I imagine stepping into a painting might be like, but more, oh so much, much more . . . and I am awakened . . . slowly . . .
cesura
Taking my time over the mountain I usually glide past at hyperspeed, I drift down into Monterey where the clouds have risen a bit . . . there on the left – the first house . . . the black cat sits haunched in the grass . . . eyes keen on the thing before it . . . mole? Or just a blade of grass? Who can say? The moment frozen . . . time suspended . . . in that just-before-launch millisecond of feline pondering . . . the cat symphony will reach its crescendo without me as I drift on . . .
forte piano
The wind pours itself into the apartment moving the vertical blinds in a rhythm only it can name . . . sitting in silence, we two hear the infrequent traffic ebbing and flowing, underscoring in the gaping quiet the distant sound of child voices . . . perpendicular to the wind I sit . . . half of my face feels its caress, the other mindless of what it misses . . . strong then quiet . . . strong then quiet . . . feeling more than hearing . . . I am mindful that God’s lungs breathe in and breathe out a world and barely a sound is heard . . .
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