I stood in the circle out beside the house this morning and tried to see the Big Dipper turning its handle counter clock wise in the northern sky, it is hard to perceive movement in star patterns, they only show movement in relation to something else, which means I have to be still, real still for a long period and use the silhouette of the pinons on the northern ridge line as markers, and be patient, the spin will show its self in time, each moment has its glory. So calm is this morning, before the sunrise, before breakfast, before the hand axe starts its steady rhythm of chop chop chopping, or before the rasp gnaws the surface to form, before the maul strikes the anvil. Each stroke gives meaning to wood, steel and stone. This is as old as human history, conjuring from what is, it is the acceptance of "Is" and knowing "I am" embedded deep in these moments, concluding only that the the bloom of the flower is no more than the cutting edges of broken stones, all having its day. It is "Me and the Rough God"
What is the relationship of what I do and who I am and what I represent on the path of our long walk in History. I look up from my breakfast bowl and see Blake and Thoreau. They give me comfort, knowing full well that God is as rough as any moment the Seeker will encounter. The path is long and I keep up the pace.
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