I recently watched a presentation about heart stones, in which a gentleman shared his research on once-heart turned-stone fossils. He ran his fingers over the marbled pink and red ridges, still wet from their pull from the river mud. Salmon mothers laying their eggs in a ventricular portal to the wealth of infinity.
Our mountain is waking it up. It is an undeniable gift to witness the waking up of a mountain. Furled ferns burst through layers of wet leaf lovers pressed together, their commitment making me slip in the mud. Ferns are such warriors.
I’ve been thinking about the phrase “to know it by heart” lately.
I try to translate the satisfaction of a moment of word recall to the physical sensation of language-less truth at the bottomless well of my heart. I try to drop down, somewhere on the spectrum between sensations. What happens to sound on the way to becoming light? Can I sit there? What was the wor(l)d like before spelling? Before tongue-tips transformed music into stone giants?
There’s a moss mat on a rock island cleaving the creek. I can sit there.
Last spring I didn’t even notice this rock. I was too busy looking ahead, further down the trail, wondering who it was that lived near me that was sweet enough to re-install a makeshift bridge over the creek every spring after the last snow thawed.
We call it the fairy bridge. I was too busy writing the script to write the script. Or maybe the rock just got here. Do you know what I mean?
I sit on the moss covered rock in the middle of the rushing creek. Am I on a giant heart lodged in the middle of an earth vein? What are we talking about when we talk about dragons? I try to identify key curves and circuitry that may have bubbled to the surface in the last 1,000 years, but she offers up no secrets today.
I pretend I’m going to meditate or do some other profound piece of sorcery for a moment, but the wind has picked up and all I can do is stare at the swaying trees.