algonquin morning

I awaken from a dream, warmed by the weight of the covers, soft in my upstairs bed, to pick up the paddle of my remembrance, the paddle of my imagination.  I am drawn from my slumber as is the rolling of the fog, which rises as do I from stillness, drawn insistently by some unspoken call, ever rolling toward the rising of the sun on the horizon. The call to come is so powerful, it feels almost organic in me, like the turning of the earth toward the life-giving energy of its sun, like the reaching of the branches toward the sky, like the breaking of the seedling through the soil.

I slip into the canoe and, like a whisper, paddle out to join the prayer of rolling mist. I am embraced by her, enfolded by her, until I am a part of her and we are one, the same way the smoke from yesterday’s fire was picked up by her until fire and water were also one. So it is this morning in me, spirit and body responding to this yearning, this insistent tug upon my being, following the call to come.

I flow with her, the motion of my paddle rolling softly, dipping and rising, arcing and spiraling in the same motion with which all living things flow. I want to know where she is going, what she knows. I want to feel her assuredness, trust this undeniable tug toward something, follow it without uncertainty.

And yet I am thwarted .  I cannot follow her to the ends of the earth, to the edge of the horizon. I cannot reach her destination. Though it seems quite obvious, this funneling of boundless waters toward that distant sunkissed point on the horizon, that point remains unreachable, ever distant, a mystery to me. Soon the sun will climb high – making its own way to some point behind me, though I know it is truly we here on earth who continue to turn and to roll, in that same circling pattern of paddle and fog, toward then away and then toward once again – and the mists will seemingly disappear, ceasing their persistent attraction, though I know they’ll too remain constant, beneath the capability of my senses to perceive them, circling and circling the earth. Evening will come and fog will settle, hovering, waiting for dawn’s breath to begin once again its steady roll, to join clouds overhead in the circling, bathing and blessing the precious planet. Cleansing and quenching the earth.

This is it then, perhaps, this yearning to follow the mists. I yearn to be quenched, for my life to be blessed…

And so this morning, in this dream paddle of remembrance, I lay down the paddle, lean back on the deck and simply let the mists roll o’er me, bathe me, anoint me, enfold me, bless me as beloved. I note the tenderness of her carress, like foreplay, and she makes me yearn for more, for a fuller immersion in the warmth of her grace,  for a deeper plunge into her quiet depths. I sense as well her ‘yes’, her consent, her mutual yearning to be entered completely.

I slip softly over the side, into surprising warmth, lie back in her arms, hear the muffled pulsing in my ears of her ancient waters. I wonder if the sound recalls me to the way I once swam in the depths of her great waters long ago, when I was one body with hers. I open my eyes to behold her beholding me, hovering over me, heavy lidded, thick as a lover, layers of ancient gray upon gray. I sing to her, invite her to fall fresh upon me, and I am quenched at last.

I wonder about this ancient tug in me between stillness and motion, between being and doing, between being blessed and blessing,  between receiving and offering, between silence and speech, this circling, circling, circling around the One who is both male and female  and neither one, who is constant and changing, who is emptiness and overflowing, who is darkness and light,  who is deeply present and ever beyond, in the mi(d)st and on the horizon.  And I wonder if this morning of Love-making will conceive something new in me, something secret and alive in me, something growing in the warmth.

Oh, may it be so.

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