Monday, August 20, 2012

windows of the Milky Way.

It was but yesterday I thought myself a fragment quivering without rhythm in the sphere of life.

Last night, I sat on the stairs watching the stars cut little pin holes of light in the velvet night sky.

Two girls sat across from me on a bench and I watched them talk. They were obviously sisters. Not because they looked alike. They didn't. They looked quite different. Life had carved heavy lines into the face of the younger. Her eyes were sadder; but her soul was gladder. The elder carried herself with the assurance of a woman. The lines between girl and woman were still blurred and undefined in the younger. But the elder had discovered the unplumbable secret of womanhood and carried it in her breast. Her face: innocent and open, formed but not molded. If an artist chiseled a statue of seafoam he would understand the radiant purity of her face.
They looked quite different.


You are blind and I am deaf and dumb, so let us touch hands and understand.

They were obviously sisters.
Because when one spoke, the other listened.
And that's rather rare.
Usually listening means understanding. We listen to someone talk about themselves, or explain themselves, and we listen to understand. We seek to understand. To know. To discover. Their words are signposts on the path into their soul.
The sisters didn't need to listen to understand. 
They already understood.
And so they just listened. Just let each other's words reach their ears and travel directly to their hearts. Their souls so clearly knew each other.

The first word of God became a man


And so I thought of those other souls that my soul knows. There aren't many. Souls are harder to know than people. People do things, and it's easy to know someone from what they do.
Scientific method.
Hypothesis. Observable actions. Theory. Test theory. Observe more actions. Actions support Theory. And thus, knowledge.

But souls don't use action verbs. Souls elude tests. And prove theories fools. A soul cannot be truly known and not loved.


He who would understand a woman, or dissect genius, or solve the mystery of silence is the very man who would wake from a beautiful dream to sit at a breakfast table.


But sisters who know each other's souls are sisters indeed.

And I watched the heads of the sisters--golden as sunlight on the lake and dark as the velvet night sky--lean together and whisper words of comfort. Words are dangerous, precious things. Because when they are exchanged, they carry with them the burden of a soul. As they traveled through the crisp night air the words revealed within the girls fear and love and longing and life. Their lips spoke the words of their soul, and she whom their soul loved listened.

In that moment, they were sisters. In that moment, I saw a reflection of my own.


The ecstasy of a poem born but still unwritten.



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