White Horizon The White Quilt of Fog
Sometimes you need the road ahead to disappear into white fog.
Sometimes you don’t want to see the horizon.
Sometimes a fog descends around you with such soft grace, without any hint of its coming… It is what you have longed for, without knowing.
In this fog it is a relief to lose your sight and not see the horizon.
Such moments are an unexpected reprieve, a yearning to one of the mysteries who alert you to those helpful voices who rush in and fix you.
The blessing of such fog is its tender blindness to everything and everyone
Except the ones who cherish you, the ones you treasure, the one to whom you most want to be attentive, you.
Into this gentle blindness the world companions you,
becomes the gift of silence with you,
listens for the one song of the one bird,
the one squirrel rustling her leaves… just so…
as if hurriedly recovering from a dream.
Now you ask that one question you have avoided, because now the lightly feathered fog has become a down-filled quilt, inviting you to wrap yourself within.
There is a time of awakening beyond your choosing… a rustling of leaves…
And then you fold the quilt of your life… just so…
And begin again, walking deeper into the white, unknown horizon.
Sometimes you need the road ahead to disappear into white fog.
Sometimes you don’t want to see the horizon.
Sometimes a fog descends around you with such soft grace, without any hint of its coming… It is what you have longed for, without knowing.
In this fog it is a relief to lose your sight and not see the horizon.
Such moments are an unexpected reprieve, a yearning to one of the mysteries who alert you to those helpful voices who rush in and fix you.
The blessing of such fog is its tender blindness to everything and everyone
Except the ones who cherish you, the ones you treasure, the one to whom you most want to be attentive, you.
Into this gentle blindness the world companions you,
becomes the gift of silence with you,
listens for the one song of the one bird,
the one squirrel rustling her leaves… just so…
as if hurriedly recovering from a dream.
Now you ask that one question you have avoided, because now the lightly feathered fog has become a down-filled quilt, inviting you to wrap yourself within.
There is a time of awakening beyond your choosing… a rustling of leaves…
And then you fold the quilt of your life… just so…
And begin again, walking deeper into the white, unknown horizon.
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