Morning Pages


            Was it Malcolm X, Nelson Mandela, a Russian exile, maybe someone imprisoned for being born Jewish?  How many passionate voices have been nurtured, possibly liberated, behind bars?  Freedom runs reckless, sometimes; might it make a vagabond or at least a wanderer of a free-spirited person who bolts like my horse does at a moving shadow?

            Discipline makes a hard master; yet life dispenses it generously: economic necessity, limits on health, passage of time, fetters of love.  In this way, I embrace slow-motion mornings, sometimes.  The luxurious dawn begins in the dimming stars, grays, and then hints faintly of gold.  This all so slender one wonders if it’s illusion. 

            This rehearses renewal; each patient dawn pushes us to participate in creating the world.  I love the Cherokee, or is it Blackfoot?, tale where the creative spirit says, “I’ve made four things now, the light, colors, the waters, and creatures on and in the waters.  If more is to be made, the earth-home, I’ll need your help.”

            Sipping coffee, sweetened and lightened, as a new day brightens, let’s peruse the day’s offering.  Where have doors closed and what almost invisible window opens?  We’ll have to be still enough to feel the breeze that guides us if we’ll find the silver vent.  Sometimes it only blows across our heart.


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