where infinity meets destiny

Just beyond the horizon, where infinity meets destiny, I can see the Beauty in that very convergence. It is then, that the bliss permeates me, and all and everything is connected by Love.

Gods laughter in a flower...

As the mysteries of our own Hearts unfold, showing us how connected we are to all that is, that we are never 'alone', but always in His Heart, growing, becoming, being!

... and we are each, a miracle ... a song of Love, where sorrow and Joy, laughter and tears, are but each a note in it ...

Beauty echoes through all things, like Gods laughter in a flower... and a communion of the 'Eternal Present' exists, as if no past ever compelled, nor future beckoned.

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Photo taken at my Community Gardens, with Nikon 8400 ... feeling written yesterday.

Tens of Rains

A grey day weighs heavily, on this early morning, in North Vancouver. At least ten shades of grey clouds hover over Burrard inlet and Vancouver’s downtown core.

Dark monuments of man reach for the ever darkening clouds of nature. Like two opposing lines of inevitable force, waiting to clash. Jutting, hard.

Rain is building in those clouds, waiting to pound the works of man. Slowly, over time, breaking down his cement edifices with wear and tear; Shock and awe!

What is it that nature does, before the rains pour forth? An inevitability hovers in the air. A tension builds. An uncertainty and lack of ease pall the faces of the army of man.

When? When! When is the assault to begin?!

Ahh! A siren pierces the heavy stillness, wailing its frenzied lament of another victim. It's the fear and waiting! It breaks them down, and they simply die of fright!

The tension rises another notch. Burrard inlet is a haunting grey, still as a watery grave. Unusual! Something is coming! I feel it in my very bones.

I broke my hand many years ago, while taking pictures in a river gorge. I slipped on an algae covered stone face, while arrogantly leaping onto it. Now, as if something smashed has a second sense for coming battles, it aches like the beat of a war drum.

Even the Ravens seek protection in the branches of their coastal woods. The Seagulls usual complaining bleat is quiet. No wind is felt. Nothing moves, now.

Waiting. Damnable, waiting!

The tensions that precede the thunderstorms of the prairies are not like this slow buildup here. There is a sneaky quality. An ignoble hidden something lurking about, ready to steal your expectations and the needed release. In the prairies, you see it coming. You can gauge it. You ready yourself for the onslaughts, gird your loins, steel yourself for the occupation. Feel the release. Here, you watch, and temper your response. Hold fast.

Wait. Too soon! Not yet!

Eyes flit back and forth over the horizon. You, watch the buildup of the clouds forces on the mountains; darkening more and more of the sky. You look further out to the sea, beyond where you can imagine. It is darker still.

Wait. It is coming! Wait!

The sea, the sky and the mountains. These are nature’s grueling forces that mold your fate here. They are merciless powerful Generals whom are just as likely to argue amongst themselves, rattling their sabers, as to combine their indomitable armies against mans puny battlements.

Wait. Save your strength. Wait!

Just as likely you could wait for days like this. Knowing the inevitability of the struggle is certainly coming. Always, you are tricked! It will be within the hour, or towards the end of the day, you tell yourself with hesitation. Your eyes scan for a horizon, gone now, blended with the mutable grey of the sea. No certainty, only restlessness.

They are making ready. A shiver runs through me. Wait!

10 of Balloons 

Ten of Balloons

I was driving to pick up my boys, one weekend, in an affluent neighborhood in Winnipeg, where they lived with their Mother and step Father. The river was nearby, and I passed by large homes with spacious yards. There, I saw a driveway to a home not visible, for the trees, and noticed a sign surrounded by yellow balloons. Happy 50th Birthday was scribed on it.

I remember ruminating that this somehow represented a successful man and that this was a milestone, a banner year, in which to celebrate his honestly earned accomplishments. All of his creative efforts and loving marriage had culminated on this day of happy celebration; so I posited in that birthday sign surrounded by balloons.

Yet, who knows how this life really was. No doubt, happiness, fleeting, visited, as it does with us all. But who can keep this happiness inside walls of brick and wood? Who is capable of this Herculean task, this blood, sweat and tears, to hold fast to this ephemeral experience of secure joy and triumph; marked, as it were, by a sign surrounded by balloons.

Even the balloon, stretched and firm, soon releases its inspired life to the wind; spent and flaccid! Is this not so with happiness, too?

Yet, there are lives, sifting through time in their happy pursuits, I imagine. Simply living out each day in a magical bubble of certainty and faith. Hearts pure and innocent, established in the community; plain lives with real smiles untormented by fears and worries. Just lives, holding hands, crossing busy streets of vice and temptation, to bounteous gardens of virtues happy wholeness. Like playful children with joyful abandon and natural grace, generous with smiles, and kind.

Happiness, then! Is it time well spent? I see in that yard a wizened old man, slumped in his lawn chair, deep in a just slumber. His children's children play with abandon all around the great yard, where bounteous gardens bear their fall fruits. The remains of a festive feast lay on the table, while birds' songs twitter in the crispness of a sunny day. His dog lay by his side in simple easy obedience. His wholesomely beautiful wife looks on the happy scene from the kitchen window with a gracious smile of contented gratitude. A sleepy joy is here... as seen in the Tarot card, the Ten of Pentacles, above, from the Rider Waite Deck.

The other day, walking by another affluent neighborhood, I saw a sign, marred and weathered by some days gone by. Surrounded by dark and deflated balloons, wrinkled and unceremoniously blowing in the wind. Written, obviously with hurried strokes, was, 'Everything must go, Moving and Divorce sale! Saturday and Sunday only'!