Sometime in September
copyright © by P. R. Lowe
I stood on my deck, at dawn, under a canopy of seemingly serene trees and looked across to the blue ridge of mountains. I watched the sun as it crawled from the hills behind my house and emblazoned those ridges with hues of reds, oranges and yellows. It was one of those moments that etches itself in one’s memory as a point of turning; a tiny blip of recognition of the now, and an unwitting knowingness that the only way forward from here is a different way; even if that means you are the only one going this way — even when it creates the illusion of fear and loss. Especially then. We humans tend to hold on to things and other beings like bits of driftwood in a raging sea—afraid to let go, afraid to die—afraid to live.
We say we are searching for truth, yet it seems that what we really desire is our own version of the truth reassuringly fed back to us. And thus the more that truth is challenged, the tighter we hold on; the more we attempt to protect it and ourselves from the one thing that is wholly inevitable—life, which in itself is change.
What is truth? Isn’t it elusive? Ever changing, in every moment — like the mountains in my front yard, which some would say are more like large hills than mountains, but history and geology tells us that once they were as mighty as the Rockies. Yet, we did not perceive or see the subtle shifts that brought about what they are today. It happened while we weren’t looking. Just like the trees which I referred to in my first sentence as “seemingly” serene. They are really seething, vibrant, ever shifting harbingers of energetic forces we may not comprehend or even see. The great black oak outside my window looks the same today as it did yesterday, but it is not.