A Pale Sun
Dear friend,
I’m sitting writing by candlelight, in the kitchen, at the table, thinking about the heat of the sun earlier today. It rained, and a squall danced down the street. I ran around closing windows, and then the sun reappeared—not pale, but hearty and strong.
Luminous, dove-like clouds against a rain-washed sky; clear and blue.
I felt like a kid, just looking for a while, in between activities.
Chiara used the phrase “a pale sun” on the phone last night. She’s away teaching in Tuscany. The phrase shone a bit, the way images do.
A pale, watery sun.
Pouring out its energy, our very bodies made of the stuff forged in some other burning star. We’ve been here since the birth of the universe, in one form or another.
Logically, there’s no reason to assume we’ll not be present when it ends.
That’s a fairly significant stretch of time.
Long enough to evolve into our spiritual heritage.
How long in time will it be until all of the people know ourselves as so intimately connected, one with the great fabric of living things?
There’s a question without an answer.
Or rather, the answer is “we’ll have to watch and see.”
There’s no good reason on earth to give up hope, though.
Everyone needs that flame burning inside.
Without hope, we struggle to find meaning for our lives.
With it, the meaning can be as simple as how we keep that flame alive.
Small kindnesses.
Tiny little acts of appreciation.
Keep the flame alive.
That’s how we find one another.
When it’s dark out.
Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey