|Dawn at Sunshine Hill|
It is January of a new year I hope to keep from breaking my heart. What choices can I make in this ambiguous world? Early in the month the nightmares came, the quaking in the deep reaches of the soul, the cries of something caught—imprisoned there. Of wings breaking against bars. It was the world struggling in the dark. It was the song of freedom caught in a paralyzed throat. From deep in the world’s soul I have sensed the unending yearning to sing, to fly, and I have felt the quaking behind closed doors, impenetrable walls, the paralyzed will.
I hesitate to put this into words.
We of this world have now been taught the stranglehold on life itself, on truth, on goodness, beauty and the unity of being that once we knew to be our destiny. We recognized it from the way it mirrored the depth in us. Each morning now I wake wondering. How can I meet this thing that slouches towards us? Resisting it seems not to work. Is there a possibility of calling forth from it that bird with broken wings? And if so, what is the charm that must be worked, the song that must be sung?
If anyone knows the answer, leave a message underneath a stone or in the knothole of your favorite tree. If you still can sing, let your voice be heard humming in the grocery line. If you are even now blessed with flight, soar, and let fall upon the cities, on mountains and deserts where the hermits live, and let drift across the yards of people in small towns pearly scraps of hope, green faith, and the translucent rain of love.