Writing is like painting. You start with a blank canvas, then make the first mark. A word, a thought, an idea. Nothing of value, but if you keep adding, layer upon layer, you get depth. Then begins the extraction, chipping away at the varnish, clawing through the acrylic, revealing what’s hidden between the words. If you are lucky, a truth begins to emerge. Like an angel sent from the heavens, a gift from the gods, a voice beyond your own.
Awake. A bright full moon with just the hint of dawn. I climb out from my slumber to witness the event. It seems the birds have the same idea, singing together in grand sonata, their tiny voices filling the canyons with song. Would the sun ever rise without bridsong? Who knows? But the sun obeys, playing her part, creeping slowly across the land until I'm bathed with brilliant light.
When the show is over the birds stop singing. Their job is done, the morning ritual over, the symphony ended. Do the birds cause the sun to rise or does the sun cause the birds to sing? Or is this just the big happening? Everything linked together. One big organism.
Everything is as it is. Without one we cannot have the other. So is the symphony of life. We are all the eyes of the world, playing our parts from our own unique perspectives. How lucky we are to be part of the show.
PHOTO: Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, CO