A Meditation on the Above
Too many hours we spend gazing downward
At tiny screens, lane stripes, mud puddles, belly buttons and myriad hazards that can trip us up,
Which is a curious phrase, since when we trip up we fall down.
What I long for in moments of quiet is to fall gently into the sky
To lose myself in contemplation of the Sistine Chapel of the universe
That sees all, knows all and offers us answers if we only can crane our necks long enough
To take in all the mystery of that little gap between the fingers of God and man, almost touching but never quite.
And in looking up I imagine what I must look like
From the perspective of tree tops, moon, or stars,
Or of the hawk perched in oak, her sharp eye scouring the earth for scampering delicacies
Or of the star nation, those innumerable ancestors above my head, who weep for me with love and hope through starry-eyed tears.
But today the vision is found in my own mind's eye craning upward,
Scouring the heavens, the clouds, the treetops and rainbows, even,
For drops of truth I can catch in my mouth to nourish my spirit,
Glimpses of longed for peace and deep knowing of what my place in creation must be.
Whenever I can pry my eyes away from contemplation of my own feet,
I look up from wherever I am and feel hot sunlight on my neck
Or watch the simmering clatter of oak leaves in wind
And, finally, lose myself for a moment in the splendor of my own insignificance.
At tiny screens, lane stripes, mud puddles, belly buttons and myriad hazards that can trip us up,
Which is a curious phrase, since when we trip up we fall down.
What I long for in moments of quiet is to fall gently into the sky
To lose myself in contemplation of the Sistine Chapel of the universe
That sees all, knows all and offers us answers if we only can crane our necks long enough
To take in all the mystery of that little gap between the fingers of God and man, almost touching but never quite.
And in looking up I imagine what I must look like
From the perspective of tree tops, moon, or stars,
Or of the hawk perched in oak, her sharp eye scouring the earth for scampering delicacies
Or of the star nation, those innumerable ancestors above my head, who weep for me with love and hope through starry-eyed tears.
But today the vision is found in my own mind's eye craning upward,
Scouring the heavens, the clouds, the treetops and rainbows, even,
For drops of truth I can catch in my mouth to nourish my spirit,
Glimpses of longed for peace and deep knowing of what my place in creation must be.
Whenever I can pry my eyes away from contemplation of my own feet,
I look up from wherever I am and feel hot sunlight on my neck
Or watch the simmering clatter of oak leaves in wind
And, finally, lose myself for a moment in the splendor of my own insignificance.
