I am trying to live on the razor’s edge of this present moment.
Three hours later, I awake to discover that an entire dream has arisen like a shroud, like a fog over the lake, with the present moment far in the background, like a corn field obscured by mist.
You vow with your life to remain in this now, you’ve done it before, you can do it again…
…and six hours later you remember, suddenly remember, and now your footsteps fall quietly on smooth cool wooden floors. Leaves shimmer in late afternoon sunlight. Someone knocks on the door. Your fingers type against the keyboard. You sip tea. It’s back, like it never left, your true love, your guru, everything you desired.
In this present moment, in this cusp, it’s very clear. You look at the spruce tree and no separation exists. You/spruce/One. How could it be unlaced, unintertwined, undone? Perception and other dance together, your true soulmate.
You feel the branches riding the wind–yourself, itself, ever-swaying–and realize that your identification with name cuts, slices and separates you from this precious magic knowing and you–
–wake up two hours later to smell the brocoli sizzling in cast iron skillet, soft sunlight dappling the kitchen counter, hummingbird buzzing the jeweled feeder. And you are all of it.
And then you’re not as you respond to emails, identifying so fully with Kathy or Laurie or Elisa or Colleen or whoever you are, or aren’t, or maybe you don’t don those self clothes, that self mask, that separate identity that both rises and falls, sings and grows silent, picks morel mushrooms or can’t find them, showers or bathes, calls yourself Democrat or Republican or Independent, or shares on Facebook or deletes your account–
but, oh sweet song, when we lean down to the earth fully seeing rising mushroom, fully present with redwing blackbird eyes and beaver teeth and sun-drenched hair, one movement, one eternity, one everything in the million songs rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and falling against the eternity of awareness, the All that we always are before we peer under the magnifying glass at that slice called self.