It comes as no surprise, walking by water's edge, that wind would ripple the liquid surface. And it comes as no surprise to me, dancing on rocks, that the same wind has buried old leaves under the water. Yes, this is the work of wind, water, and fallen leaves, twigs, gentle debris. It is as though choreographed, plotted out, structured to create some experience or feeling or image or thought. It is something bigger than I can appreciate, which is not to say I ought not to try.
That's how it feels, this time. Sometimes it's just a bunch of stuff; and sometimes it's the elements of a sacred dance. What heads it in one direction rather than another? Nothing of consequence, that much I know. Nothing complicated or even very hard. It's only what I bring, what I choose to put my attention on.
So my choice, this time, is to notice the exact rightness of this submerged alter, to notice the ease with which these disparate pieces have fallen into an exact and haphazard rightness. I'm grateful to have caught this glimpse of perfection, no different from any other congregation of debris.