the simplicity beneath the world

Walking sleepily into the kitchen, I lowered my eyes instinctively against the red-gold vibrancy of sunrise - except it wasn't there. Instead, I found myself gazing with wonder at a blue and cream sky that looked as cold as a winter ocean, and as calm as gentleness against unclothed skin.




Signs of autumn. A chill in the sea breeze when I opened the door the night before. A conversation - we should have dinner on the beach more often, before it gets too dark too soon. A watercolour sky, first thing in the morning. The newspaper said four days ago it was autumn, and I didn't believe them. There was still too much heat to garden or clean windows or sleep. But now I begin to see it. The world is slowly, sighingly, becoming subdued.

And where my garden has been struggling, dying, for months - a new white and gold flower, blooming mere days after I stuck its bulb in the ground to dream of next spring.

Everything in my spiritual practice tells me to mark the signs of autumn awakening, make a story of it, sing the changes in. But when I looked at the sky this morning, and started thinking along the lines of miracles (as you would too after the summer we've had) a quiet voice in my heart reminded me that it's just the way the world is turning.

That's all it is. The spin and shift of the planet.

Thing is, I believe (like a crazy woman) that this simple tumble in light and darkness is one big miracle, and all the little complexities - the reddening tomatoes, the poetry of snowflakes - are expressions of it. The world, she turns, she sings and blooms, in the gentle wind-shaped hand of her lover. It's simple. It's love. It's everything.