The eagle sits so quiet, so still and unmoving on its perch. Not this morning, in my view, but still-- as in the sense of continuation, day by day-- they feed in the neighbor's field, visit often, and seem to know this area well. I wonder if there is a whiskey-producing still someplace in the hills here-about that they observe with their sharp, only-natural-law-enforcing eyes?
It just recently dawned on me that-- yes!-- the work in the still room of the estate mistress, or the healer, or perhaps the witch, is done with the cook-the-concoction-and-draw-off-the-distillate kind of still. Done well, I believe still room work includes some meditative concentration, and it draws ingredients from the past-- knowledge and real-world, tactile, collected stuff-- with trajectory for the future, but in the moment it is mix-and-cook deal. One can never be done with finding out new things in the world, and then we can add to our mix-and-cook. Let us rejoice and be glad in our finding out, and as often as possible laugh at mistakes, each and every element of the world recognized as part of life's brew.
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