Speaking of consciousness, a smile arises with my breath, like the ocean waves coming into shore, happily greeting my toes. The smile extends there, into my feet. I sense the outline of my body, the substances filling it, the structure supporting it, the personality abiding. Past, present and future are all accounted for in time and timelessness. Traces of truth remain, as I watch the water dissolve into the sand.
The sun and the moon make great companions, but rarely see one another. One is hidden, the other displayed. Sometimes, they can be seen in the sky together, when they whisper as dawn breaks, our light is one. They appear separate; the sun and the moon, the forest and the trees, the sky and the birds, the water and the sand.
Speaking of Consciousness, my breath once again becomes a smile upon my face. The sun is there to warm me, the moon cooling my back, shooting through my heart's abode. It is here, it is there. It is in- between here and there. Mirrors surround and catch the image of the mandala, constantly changing it’s perfect display of colored seconds of time, washed clean with a crashing wave. Foam crested waters immerse what was held in that instant, sheer, like the mist. Don’t be fooled by the changing scenery.
Speaking of Consciousness, my feet want to dance. My arms want to swing and my heart wants to jump for joy. My hands want to come together, to clap, to pray. My body wants to twirl and reach to the sky, my nose wants to take in the smells of the dirt and all the rotting leaves and the chill in the air. My ears are free and sounds swirl through them. I want to give birth. My child is born of this smiling light. Countless babies of bliss bounce through the air, like bubbles or balloons making there ascension. They are gone now.
Speaking of Consciousness, all of nature take their places, like the pages of a book , blank until the words are written. What once was a black and white world has become a magical spiraling field of light, full of colors that have no names. The base is this radiance, brilliant light. Who is mixing these gorgeous hues? Who is the palette holder and who is creating this scene before my eyes? I’ve heard the name whispered in the wind. It contains all the letters and all the names and all the sounds. They swirl together like leaves falling, and delight in carrying them softly to the ground. The sound they make as they touch the earth, that is the name, speaking of consciousness.
written by Karen Ferguson