Still

The word "still" is interesting in that it has two quite different meanings. It holds the sense of quiet, and also of continuance. Sometimes the meaning in context is clearly one or another, sometimes, and especially in poetry, both apply.

That word applies in both senses to the outdoors view today. There was rain overnight, and light mist fills the valley. Wet tree trunks, wet roof shingles on the horse sheds, dense shadows inside those sheds, all are varieties on the theme of dark. The mosses growing on the close trees have about the same value of green as the meadow grasses, but a slightly different, perhaps less golden, hue. The asphalt lane that comes from the farmhouse to the road, usually black as asphalt is when it's dry, makes a slick sliver ribbon. The pines, as fully infused with color as ever, are less distinctive as the air-water blends and softens the view. It's all beautiful.

Don't our moods and abilities go through periods of weather changes, just like the valley? There is sunshine, and starsong, and rainy times. Since I must continue to age, my desire is to do so gracefully, and I'm sure one of my lessons is to learn over and over that if I will but set my intention to be patient and compassionate to myself and to others, sunshine will return.

The truth is, of course, that eventually I will not open my eyes to see the sunshine. I know that end from the beginning. I don't claim an opinion about what happens to my particular spirit after death. Yet I know this: Is there life after death? Just look around! Springtime!

This morning the world is quiet, and it continues.