In early morning lamplight,
gazing out the window at the meadow
I see myself reflected,
face growing out of goldenrod and Joe Pye weed,
bearded with grasses, thinning forest of hair.
I go outside to see more clearly.
Yes, look at these hands, the knuckles of my roots,
my feet down among the mycelium.
The sun comes up, full of the whole ocean.
All day I see this, the meadow full of sky,
the house with generations in it, coming and going,
the city that is a thousand villages,
peasants squatting by steaming pots,
camel trains passing the bus stop,
sealskin kayaks along the rivers of street,
skyscrapers at the gas pump.
Each office window is a house,
every shop a ruin and a temple, thriving,
the subway a long dance of generations.
Every face I see is myself, varied.
I am ancestors, strangers, unknown languages, tribes,
histories in my feet and my hands.
I come home to a house that is earth,
near a river that is life.
I breathe the air that is God.
I sit under the tree with the mountain in it.
When they say “Just be yourself”
they have no idea what they’re including.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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