Spring by Jim Harrison

Something new in the air today, perhaps the struggle of the bud
to become a leaf. Nearly two weeks late it invaded the air but
then what is two weeks to life herself? On a cool night there is
a break from the struggle of becoming. I suppose that’s why we
sleep. In a childhood story they spoke of the land of enchant-
ment. We crawl to it, we short-lived mammals, not realizing that
we are already there. To the gods the moon is the entire moon
but to us it changes second by second because we are always fish
in the belly of the whale of earth. We are encased and can’t stray
from the house of our bodies. I could say that we are released,
but I don’t know, in our private night when our souls explode
into a billion fragments then calmly regather in a black pool in
the forest, far from the cage of flesh, the unremitting “I.” This was
a dream and in dreams we are forever alone walking the ghost
road beyond our lives. Of late I see waking as another chance at
spring. – Jim Harrison, “Spring” from Songs of Unreason.

(I tried, I really did try to work with this new interface of Facebook’s, but it didn’t work, so all I can say is that I will just leave out my rhetoric (such as it was) and keep trying.) I am just too old for this stuff.

“The soul is life, it never touches death. Death is its illusion, its impression, death comes to something which it holds, not to the soul itself. The soul becomes accustomed to identify itself with the body it adopts, with the environment which surrounds it, with the names by which it is known, with its rank and possessions, which are only the outward signs that belong to the world of illusion. The soul absorbed in its childlike fancies, in things that it values and to which it gives importance, and in the beings to which it attaches itself, blinds itself by the veils of its illusion. Thus it covers its own truth with a thousand veils from its own eyes.” 

 Hazrat Inayat Khan, The Heart of Sufism