We are made of rhythm. This eternal, glorious, perfect rhythm which continues to pour life into us. The pacing of our breath, the expansion and compression of our lungs, the timbre of our hearts. These rhythms with which the worlds within coincide with the worlds without, and all to their own measure.
Perhaps the reason why the sun takes her time in climbing high into her pool of sky is to give my heart ample time to find its own meter, before we both submerge back into the calm of the Pacific. The rising and subsiding of the tides are surely a testimony to the patience that I, too, have the potential to inherit. And meanwhile, the wind rolls through like a swooping stream, in unison with the ocean current and those currents which flow far deeper into the core of this mound of clay which I call Me, and this magnificent mound of dirt that we call Home.
The small, quiet voice tells me, “Wait. Just for a moment. There is something more I’d like to show you.”
And herein I find the inspiration that awaits me, weaving its way through my memory, my ideas, my words, my pulse, my hands, my brush, these illuminations that leave me much wiser than just moments prior.
The sublime motifs of nature. Oh, their majesty. And as they flutter into my ears and eyes, I study with wide-eyed wonderment all the beauty of the delicate details that are offered here. And I'll expect them to echo upon a myriad of planes to be regarded with great consideration. They always do. And they always are.
This is the cadence of my bare feet upon this ancient sandstone. Or perhaps it’s my throbbing heart, wild with admiration and gratitude. Or maybe it’s these dozen feathered wings beating, circling gracefully above me in stride with the swirling waters at my feet. It’s hard to tell the difference on days like these, if there is, indeed, any difference at all.