Saturday, August 31, 2013

Musings Under the Balsamic Moon



Thinking about this at the end of the evening, at the end of a month, the end of a moon cycle, the end of a season.  It's the time of year when we are moving closer and closer toward our cyclic endings.  The harvest and putting up our abundance for lean times.  The ending of the long, bright days of summer.  My thoughts continue to spiral around, into inevitable thoughts exploring existential philosophy around endings -- the deeper, more profound applications. . . at least to the human mind.  Nature's cycles point to deep and profound realities.  And tonight I feel that simply noticing the moment is important.

I see beauty in every season, but so often I feel a bit melancholy in these between times, when something is passing away and what is yet to come has not quite arrived.  I am struck by life's constant rhythm of letting go and welcoming in.  My thoughts inevitably turn to the death and rebirth cycle of life.  I try very hard to keep the three words together -- death and rebirth -- but, more often than not, I pause after the first; I know the second is coming, but pause there too. For what feels like an endless moment, I pause before coming to the third. Word. 
When thoughts of endings and death come, I can't help but yearn for beauty.  And I don't simply want to see it, feel it, and experience it --
I want to help create it, to be a part of it, to be Beauty's agent.
And so my attention turns toward creating Beauty.  With my thoughts and with my words.  With poetry and prose. With my wild imagination and the images that flow from it. With the spoken word and with silence. 

With offering something to meet the worry and the stress and the anxiety of our shifting and changing times, and the landscapes that morph and change more quickly than we can absorb. 
As the waning crescent of the balsamic moon diminishes and disappears, and the dark time between the cycles comes, there is a time of pure potential, pregnant with possibility. A time when our dreaming plants seeds.  We pause for a moment, suspended in the timelessness of between before moving boldly forward into what is still unknown. 


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