Never before have the mushrooms come, having sprung up beneath the colors of the setting sun, like harbingers sending word for the others to follow suit, to settle in, to family reproduce. I feel like the searched-for hostess, the mortally-cloaked fairy princess. Little do the other humans know, I live to be that escape artist, to visit like Alice the enchanted kingdoms among the petals and leaves and gypsy fungus. Even the dog knows to respect the magic.
Seasons don’t take turns; in the South, as one, all merge as if to purge preconceived notions. Harmony is the bloom in autumn, the colors the frost will kiss, the sound of the ocean never frozen. Peace still exists.
Still as silhouetted dragonfly wings is all that used to swirl restlessly in me. I hold my breath and so does the breeze; we both stop time for centuries.
The secrets from the ancient flier can only be imparted in complete silence; any ripple in the universe jeopardizes this which is rarely achievable in this life.
Perhaps this is my umpteenth time…
I recently had a supreme spiritual moment; not now, but when I was again freshly broke open, my soul exposed again to worldly poisons and decades-rotten ingested false notions.
It is only in these complete ruptures, it seems, can the bad get out and God restitch the seams. Perhaps it is true that the rock bottoms are needed to unclench the fist and open the palm for receiving.
I was mended with light again by His own loving hand. And inside me, this time, another something planted. I feel it in the silhouetted dragonfly wings suspended, except I think it is me that it and the breeze are sensing.
I feel our connectedness, the same serenity seeds inside of us. It’s hard to go back to the way it was when gratitude, which I’ve always had, are blooms in such surplus shooting up.