On this Saturday afternoon, the world is drenched. Water tables are down, gasoline prices continue to rise. We need the rain.
If the seasons are viewed as a circle, am sitting smack in spring's circumference. Yesterday, as I was working at my desk, Walt came by for a pet. He leaned his side against my leg, and I absentmindedly rubbed his back, as I was really paying attention to the programming code on the monitor screen. Soon I had a fistful of Black Lab fur. Ah...spring is here. The Black Labs are dropping their winter coats.
Out to the front yard we went, and I curried and brushed those two Black Lab steeds for about twenty minutes. Soon there were gobs and circles of Black Lab fur blowing gently across the green grass. Have a feeling much of it will end up intertwined with twigs in the nursery of nests now under construction in local trees.
When I was a child, and still Catholic, I thought God lived in circles, constantly turning, always going somewhere. That's how he could be in so many places at once. Just to go from wheel to wheel where he was needed most. On spring nights I would lay awake in my childhood bed, house windows newly opened, and listen to the sound of something possibly important in the squeal of impatient auto rubber moving on the street outside. I figured God's presence was needed in a hurry by some sinner somewhere. Yet I also knew, somehow, that the round God could be halted. Roller skates scratching down the sidewalk can bounce through cracks, though movement can be silenced by the unexpected pebble.
Silence returns us to unity from multiplicity. From the demanding questions shouted in class, from the numbing traffic-wait, from the incessant yacking of foolishness. I wonder what happens to us all, what goes away, only to return. Is it fresher? Perhaps it just has different meaning the next time around.
Last summer at the Museum of the Rockies in Bozeman, Montana, I came upon an exhibit of the Plains Indians. They believed smoking was holy, that the circles of smoke delivered from a peace pipe gave physical form to words spoken or thought in prayer. Smoke carried messages into the sky where spiritual beings would notice them and help the people.
I suppose the creator is always recycled. From the wooden porch out behind this house, you can sit on the steps and view those nomadic stars, having so long ago burned circles of space in the dark sky from which to hang their light.