Daily Bread: Prose Poem 2

What if we imagine our eyes seeing, as they scan images during our walk through everyday, that windows to the inside open here and there; that is, if we focus and move to enter them. For example, yesterday our dog asked for affection, more than usual, but it first came in her eyes’ invitation. I didn’t have to get the affection; we’re not required to enter images. Then, at sunset, the forsythia almost demanded that I make time to take the camera outside, and I yielded the moments and composed myself. It only took a few moments to arrange the picture. Then, the simple grace allowed me to enter the beauty of that window, to see the fresh yellow birth foregrounding the range of purples as the sun descended. Chances are I’m going to need the special vibration of those hues in order to make my way if and when I move on.

Daily words are not so distant from visual images. I might linger back into the resonance of “I don’t know how to thank you” that I almost pushed away. Precious intimacy, tear filtered, windowed as a long, ten-year, program of work culminated. Yet it easily disappears into all the chit-chat. Entering the image of it recalls the two-hour examination that had preceded those words. Like the purples, violet and mauve, across the western skyline, the facial expressions and variant, even discordant, voices around the conference table had slowly, almost painfully, composed into harmony while I’d helmed the course.

Perhaps re-composing yesterday’s images offers fine-tuning to this morning’s compass. I see it nudging me to prioritize time to ride, to claim the urgency of restoring, remembering balance. Vestiges of the night’s dream show me riding on the shoulders of a fellow, the one who continually amazes me with his explorations in digital media. In the dream, I was finding balance while we moved in spirals. I recollect the way my body, when most awake, has learned the feel of balanced, centered riding, moving in the flow, horsepower. It’s a sense that tells me how to move when off the horse as well. But it’s an elusive sense, better known when stored up through the discipline of regular riding. It builds that resource that recognizes windows and guides the subtlety required to slip them open, to ease cacophony into tune.

OK. I commit to going in that window. I’ll ride. Today.

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