The Remembering

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I spend my time in sacred meditation and have reached a new plateau. I’ve climbed just a portion of the mountain, and as I sit silent in contemplation, eyes closed, whisking each cloud away I now see a sky of blue and when I have left the cushion I see the distance I have come and how far I’ve  climbed.

My calling is to grasp a kernel of truth, first to ponder and at the point of understanding hold it close or push it far away depending on its substance. I look inward and see the endless row of memories and pull one down to savor and to commit to the page.

I embrace its fullness, and from this vantage point look to find its true nature, what was hidden as it happened. As with any act of flow, time disappears, and the taste, the weight, the color, and emotions of the past reappear in the remembering. As their scribe, I strive to do them justice, wrestling the essence of those times down to the page, not merely their happenings, but their being.

Still willing to spend footsteps, I will climb the peak ahead, scramble if I have to. But if I were to sit immobile for a decade, with only lips to smile at our antics and cheeks to run with tears, I would be sated with the fullness of the life we had together, and this precious time I’ve had to marvel at the wonder in the remembering.