This evening

I went for a walk this night; my first in a good few days. I waited till the dark had pitched his tent in the valley and warmed his hands at the furnace of the western sky. I am a child of the the dusk, my storm blue eyes find their origin in the color of twilight and for me, there is a kindling in the strange half light of dying day. I’m sure I worry those who love me no end by my twilit rambles, but I can’t seem to help myself. That light is a mystery always begging me to solve it; it is so opposite to the flat, bright hours of modern day. So I set out again tonight in blue tinged air with a thump of heart and beat of blood.

I looked and looked and looked at my mountain world tonight. To the east, beyond the chained, plodding gangs of neighborhood houses, I saw the tide of spring rolling in upon the winter gold shores of dry fields; swift waves of green crashed up over the slopes. Above, there was the violent crash of another sea, rife with with dark, rogue waves of storm. The air, ah, mountain air my friends, had been stolen from the hills and flung into the valley, still redolent with the dim, chill spice of rain-drenched firs in dark, forgotten woods.

I walked with swift steps, as if I could match the rush and tumble of the wind and take part in the liveness knocking on every sense in my body. For the world was tinged with a wakefulness tonight that was more than mere nature, mere beauty. I think a lot lately about God’s real, actual presence, and the way it shatters the fragile structures of my normalcy. He broke in upon me tonight, his hands wet with the storm over my head and the loamy dirt of the newborn fields as he crafted them to bear the mark of his reality. And when I got home, breath lost and muscles spent, I collapsed in new grass to stare up through pine needles and think about it some more.

For I was awake tonight, jolted by God’s swift, gentle hands. I think I am often asleep; senseless to the real, pulsing life that exists outside of my headlong rush through cars, airports, errands and freeways. And in all honesty, I think it’s easier to be senseless, much less demanding to be blind. To see and be aware, to “practice the presence of God” as Brother Lawrence has it, takes a lot of concentration. But sometimes, God conspires with his own beauty to make that wakefulness a little easier. I felt it tonight.

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3 Comments

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3 responses to “This evening

  1. I know I have been a mother too long. Instead of my own “enjoying the beauty” of all around you, I became concerned about getting out grass stains on clothing when one sits on grass after a rain.

    Sigh… ๐Ÿ™‚

  2. Debbie in CA

    Greetings fellow twilight lover! So nice to have your thoughts running freely again. My journals sing with the praises of twilight. Many often query my love of the dying day rather than the dawn; I just smile without need to defend. The paintbrush of day’s dissolve speaks to my heart strongest … ’tis my only reply. A misty twilight bow, deeply resonant celtic tunes, and a steamy cup of tea finishes off a wintry day like no other, whereas the falling warmth of a summer’s day wrapped in gold viewed through the glittering tree line in the distance — aaaaahhhh, such a sight! I rejoice with you as you dance along your splendid path. Our gossamer skirts swish greetings that only the kindred heart sees. Dance this twilight and know you have company. : ) enJOY!

  3. Your spirit comes through in your eloquent words…thank you for describing your evening so thoroughly…it lets a little bit of the same glorious twilight into my own heart. ๐Ÿ™‚

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