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.