Last night, sleep came easy and left early, so I was up again this morning well before first light. As I stood out in the yard, with silhouettes of bare-limbed trees all around the house that just last week were dripping with fall color, thoughts about the changes life has wrought formed around me. After being away for several years from this place where I grew up, I find I'm still growing used to being back, still settling in to a new sense of home. There in the dark, I could almost feel the movement of the universe itself, taking me further away from what was - the places I've been and the people I've known - and pulling me ever closer to the new. And though the cool night air was still hanging around my porch, I was warmed by this feeling. I knew, standing there at the edge of morning, "what's past is always prologue." *
Before I could see the headlights through the trees, I could hear the neighbor's truck as it crossed the bridge that leads to their farm. The now familiar rumbling has become a comforting sound. It's the sound of my new life.
I love the dark hours of my being.
My mind deepens with them.
There I can find, as in old letters,
the days of my life, already lived,
and held like a legend, and understood.
Then the knowing comes: I can open
to another life that's wide and timeless.
So I am sometimes like a tree
rustling over the gravesite
and making real the dream
of the one its living roots embrace:
a dream once lost
among sorrows and songs.
From Rainer Maria Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God
*Paraphrased from Shakespeare's The Tempest
Paintings by Henri Rousseau (1844-1910)