man sitting in the sun. With gnats.

 I've had an odd week. Seeing how fragile life is. Loved ones are. I am. So this morning I walked out in the backyard. Sunny but a little cool. I found a chair and settled in a bright warm patch of sun.

Gnats were circling my head and I was feeling or seemed to feel every year of my life on this planet.

I started thinking and then started to type this on my phone.

One other thing. I was raised "in the church" as we say in the South. Honestly? It's been more blessing than curse. At least for me. But, I no longer follow the dogma. 

When I was a child I had a memory. Just a snippet. I told my mother of an old man. He had walked down some stairs and was sitting in a chair. He knew it was time. I knew I had a connection with that old man. My mother just said "hush. Go out and play."

So lots of thoughts were on my mind this week and this morning. My only real connection with hope is my inner prayers and meditations. I know we are more than these few beautiful, horrible, blessed and awful years we sometimes have on earth. 

Peace.

Who is that old dude. Pulling up a chair on a cool April morning? Dodging the shade and staying in the bright rays of the sun? Is the blood that thin? Don't the passions still rise. Those soft eyes and looks of the right jeans and halters on the girls from 1976? 

Or do they sit somewhere in the sun? Dodging the cool breeze that their warm Southern blood once craved? What happened to the Friday night beer runs and the Saturday afternoon strolls through the mall?

But this feels like it's come before. It feels like a wheel. Somewhere in a deeper dwelling the old men and the old women still remember they are that spark. That awareness.

But, it's late now. The chair in the sun Is temporary. But, so are the shadows of Winter. Somewhere ahead the road forks again. A new womb to the world opens and the old find everything is new again. 

A child looks at his hands. A child notices the color of her eyes. It feels brand new. A shadow and a chair. Must have been a dream. It's time to dance. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy...William Wordsworth.