Last Saturday is Eid al-Fitr, the final day of Ramadan, and it’s perfect rainbow weather, the storm clouds steely yet bright. From my window I watch the eastern sky. In the Quran, ‘god’ is often expressed in the first person plural. What if the Bible were the same? And the bow shall be in the cloud; and We will look upon it, that We may remember the everlasting covenant with every living creature that is upon the earth. Would we see a collective self in all things? When it finally comes, it is doubled, the inner bow seemingly crystalline, touchable. Four years ago I spent Ramadan in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco. Each night à table Mohamed would hand me the plate of dates before all others, allowing me to eat first though I was not fasting as they were. Technically a double rainbow occurs when the light refracts a second time through each water droplet, in other words, the rainbow reflected back on itself, the thing acting as its own mirror. We are who we are inside and out. Let us all be humbled by both the seen and the unseen. Let us comport ourselves accordingly. I stand at the window long after the colors fade. With or without me, they will come again.
Archives for June 2017
where motor boats can’t go but it’s easy in a kayak, and so most afternoons I slip under to the place where the same thing happens as occurs in the Blue Grotto off the coast of Capri, there the blue of the sky reflected off the white-sand bottom, the color intensified in the waters of that cavern, how the first and only time I was in Capri I was fourteen years old, and now when I kayak under the bridge it’s like being there again only here the light shocks the water an electric green, almost neon, the water so bright that each time I come I feel as if I’ve floated into heaven despite the sleeping bags, the pair of men’s rubber boots, the ratty possessions, everything someone owns crammed into less than two feet of overhead space, and each time I come to be dazzled I am reminded that this is not heaven, this is a world where some men live under bridges, some men are shot as they drive home with the people they love, some of us are granted admittance to unspeakable beauty as teenagers. This is a world where if one of us is lost, all of us are lost.
I paint my nails mint in an attempt to cool myself. High winds and the Strawberry Moon paddle is canceled. At the all-day retreat at Deer Park, the lama tell us we must wish that all sentient beings have the tools to achieve happiness. Bub, look around, I silently think. We are of a nature to burn. We have not gone beyond burning. Behind me, the kid with the prayer wheel like a god with a world.
Thursday & a bird has once again built its nest in the stoplight on Regent. O feathered sister, in the moment when this mechanized sun goes silent, does your 460 beats per minute heart beat even faster as you await the return of the light, the yellow winking every third interval? Is that why you are here again, drawn to this halogen yolk, this incontrovertible that blasts you w/its radiance, each day simply a matter of seconds & then darkness, repeat, or am I thinking of it all wrong, am I letting the darkness that we can't seem to escape cloud my heart? O to live in your jerry-rigged world— each day composed of thousands of dawns, each one a fresh start!