Bathed in sunlight at water’s edge, I came to make an offering. At the confluence, everything abounds. It is as if any thing can be seen, or heard, or known there.
Like rays of amber, light was pouring in through the pines and hemlocks, through the still water, golden from the fallen leaves. The remains of trees still stand in the water, bare and pale as moonlight, spilling shadows into the rolling mist. Across the trembling water, I spoke the words,
“Heaven on Earth”.
The words fell like breaths onto a mirror. They fell into the moss of snags, into the grass gone to seed on the beaver lodge. Tracing the banks where the otter plays, and the moose drinks a draft of stars. The only movement was the slow sweep of clouds rising with the light.
Then in the very place I touched it, the water began to stir, moving and undulating. A ripple was sweeping outward, creating a dynamic image. I watched intensely, I had never seen anything like it before––
a spiral was unwinding across the water.
Spreading out into the pond was a tiny, spectacular wave. Its vibrant arms reaching out, catching the sunlight in the peaks. A singular message of rebirth, growth, and transition. Of motion uninterrupted. The Mother, becoming. Intuition, unfolding into the fifth element.
More than a sign; a point of contact––connecting, calling, evoking a gift in return.
As the spiral raced, and then spun down, slower and slower, the reflected clouds became clear. From the humblest water, I drank in the moment.
Among the crags and bare limbs, among chickadees and red leaves, the newts and teaberries, I slowly bent down, deep into the lichens and moss. Pressing as closely as I could, to see, to feel,
kneeling at the edge of heaven on earth.
