Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Thoughts from a Mountain in the Moonlight

There are societies that measure time not by the sun but by the moon.

I like this better.

The moon is a creature of passions. Something about that strata of light appeals to our curiosity, to our imagination, to the better parts of our intuition. Maybe something remotely dangerous.

Especially here.

There are places where the starts do not shine - they dance! They cover the sky like neon ivy. Here there are no streetlights. Here the lights are only from the sky, having nothing to do with man.

Here the crickets hold philharmonic concerts. The owls guess all night. The coyotes and wolves mark the hours. The wind plays millions of leaf maracas.

All under the quite of darkness. Not city darkness. No. Real darkness. The meaning of the word. Where light is absent.

But not all light.

On most nights, the moon and stars spread a soft angelic silvery blue over the land. A colour in dreams and distant memories. The colour of the fog of age. On a clear night, the moon shines as bright as the sun, just in its own spectrum. A spectrum of full energy.

Isnt the blue flame the hottest? The most full of energy?

Would not the same hold of the blue light of night?

Something in human DNA calls us to intrigue with the moon and the moonlight.

It's the thing of romance. Its the thing of fairy tales. Its the thing of inspiration.

Although, to be fair, everything is a thing of inspiration. Especially here.

In a different time, there were stories reaching the cities about deadly, but beautiful beyond compare, but deadly mountains, capped with snow eight months of the year. Where flowers grew like weeds, and wild beasts covered the land. Where the rivers flowed from Heaven itself, and from Hell as well. A place not bound by society, not bound by the city. Not bound by the normal expectations of civilized man.

There were drawings and whispers. Stories told at dusk and in pubs. Stories not even the moon would dare disturb.

And some people, upon hearing these tales, recoiling in terror. They clutched their cross. They hugged their comforts. They drove their roots in deeper.

Some people were intrigued by the possibilities, and the chance for land, a new life, gold, perhaps.

And some people. Well, they heard this as a call home.

A call to a different life, where what was possible was whatever happened. A place where man was not the king of the world, just a life within it.

They heard not the "deadlys," the "terrible," the risk of "life and limb." For there was no choice for these souls. Life and limb was being risked day in and day out where they lived already. If not physically, then within the soul.

So they climbed onward.

It snowed here today. And several times last week.

I dont mind.

Its 90 degrees where I live.

I dont mind.

To be surrounded in Mystery is worth the cold.

To be encompassed in Beauty is worth the winter.

I stand here, upon a mountain jutting out of the valley with the grace a ballerina only can aspire to. The snow tucks in the majority of the surrounding mountains. In the distance, the grunts of the bison herd drift along. Grunts deeper than time itself.

My shoes are rimmed in mud, soaked, as are my pants. My hands are sunburned. Vitamin D is ragging in my cells. Breath fills my body with pure air. Breathed directly from God before. Or at least from the den of a forest that knows little of man.

Here I stand. An explorer and a prodigal son, both. My heart light as Times Square. But full. And genuine.

I feel the land smile.

Our souls embrace, long and deeply.

Mystery is where we find it. Maybe where we bring it. But its definition is peculiar to each of us. I have stood in the center of 5 million people. People with lives and cars and jobs and ... yes, there was mystery. Shallow and restless mystery. Mystery that flickered in the neon buzz. That hung around stench of the sidewalk and alleyways. A mystery that did not call my name. A ghost that four meddling kids and their dog unmasked as just the jealous banker across the hall.

But I do hear my voice. Sailing on the wind. In the raindrops. Sown into the melting snowflake. It's written in the lupin, or in the yellow timbre of the arrowroot. Its spelled out by the squirrels and marmots in pine cones and blow down. Its hummed by the stones rolling down the river. Its in the eye of a bear, foraging alone in a field.

It says, "We are Home."

Home is wherever Im with you.

And I wonder how long I will ignore their voices. How long will I turn my soul from itself. How long, how long?

A wise man said there are no problems. Problems are only there when we are looking for solutions. Once we accept there is not a solution, it ceases to be a problem. It is a fact.

The moons have drifted on. I have watched the flight of other birds. The feathers on my arms and back have filled in.

The ground is further than ever. But the moon is on my side. She smiles and sends confidence into each cell of my body.

My voice echos in my head.

And calls back from Here. From beyond the trees. Beyond the mountains. But Here, where the soul pervades even places. Even within the energy of rocks.

Dreams are just wishes. And wishes are dreams youve wished to come true.

I believe in dreams. They create our lives. What some might call reality. (Though i despise that term. Reality is subjective to each person and each moment, and there is no over-reaching out there reality.) Dreams. The soul has dreamed this and called it into existence.

How can I deny the voice of the soul?

So here I sit. In a moonbeam. Breathing. And knowing that the past has passed, the future is always tomorrow, and that now, the coyotes sing.

I know this song.

This song has been given to me by the moonlight when I was a child.

So I too sing.

When you hear your song, you'll know it. All you have to do is sing along.