Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

Homing instinct.

January 10, 2018


I've always been a big fan of not explaining the mystical, the mystifying. I'd much rather move through my days, occasionally stopping to catch my breath at some piece of weather, some animal behavior so close to my own that I remember a long kinship there--one mapped out in ceremony, in poetry by long-forgotten ancestors. I don't care why the moon moves the tides; I only know that my bones hear the new moon rising, sense the full moon beginning her long turn waning. 


We don't need explanations in order to see what's real, what's connected, what's affected by the web we're woven into. If it feeds your own curiosity, adds to your personal poetry, explain away. But remember this--so many of us depend on our own nonverbal language, our own silent ritual that unasked for explanations interrupt the beat, remove through clinical disinfection our own sweet smoke of ceremony. 







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This Quiet Earth