I feel it, don’t you–the turning inward that comes in these shorter days? The earth and I tilt away from heat and light, from the exuberance of summer, and now past the decline of fall, I settle here in the womb of early winter.
What is it I expect to find in this moment, this one room, a single lamp beside me the only sun. Nothing but my fingers move, my mind wanders in place, I wait.
It is nothing less than everything I want to grasp. Its secret is in the passing present–infinity; in the space under the waiting palms of my hands, resting–the cosmos.
We are given so much wisdom in small things. Be still, and know.
When I browsed across this image of the repeating pattern of an aloe plant yesterday, patterns in my own archives came to mind–of the beauty and mathematical order of nature–this millipede image I’ve superimposed here, in particular.
I follow the spiral toward the center. Until spring. And then…