Last night I listened to the echoes of fireworks and gunfire in the distance that were carried upriver to my ears. The night stretched on and I considered the past year's events as I waited for the immense palette of sunrise to unfold the sky and earth with the patient strokes of lumière tisserand brosse.
It's a new year, right? Or, is it an old year tonight? Why am I so easily slipping through time right now? There is a great, thunderous but silent, vibrant pulsation and the words of the year past pour back at me in dissonant harmony. They say nothing is new under the Sun. They say everything changes, adapts, evolves, transforms, nothing is everything, new is the new old. They say the future is unwritten and that our paths are predestined. They say that chaos cannot be contained, nor peace achieved. They say that cataclysmic events are of God and that science is the language of no God. They say the Universe is infinite but that we are finite.
What a racket they made around my fire. I sent them all away with a glance and stared into the embers. I threw a little sage and bistort on the flame and focused, picked up my hook and the shawl I've been slowly adding to, and making loops and stitches, wove my way into the new year. Nothing much has changed. Success is still a moving target.
I started my first book for the pagan reading challenge today. Mundane things have monopolized too much of my time this year and it has worn on me. I feel the need to dive deeper in relationship with Earth. I know what I need to do to fix me; now, all I have to do is try a little more regularly.