At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled
after a night of rain.
I dip my cupped hands. I drink
a long time. It tastes
like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold
into my body, waking the bones. I hear them
deep inside me, whispering
oh what is that beautiful thing
that just happened?

-Mary Oliver


With a grimace I close my door and drive to work early. Vehicle after vehicle pull out from their driveways, with turn signals flickering. We merge onto the freeway joining this rapid accumulation, a moving parade; a tired, solemn parade. And then, one by one we are exiled, as we migrate to our exits, our cities, our streets.

All this going is characteristic of us. It is constant, essential, habitual. It is us. We are beings of moving and of moving things. Of work, of doing. Most of the time we love the suggestion, affection, rhythm, and pronunciation of movement, of goings and of comings. Doing is logical. Movement is natural.

Driving home at dusk, the beams of car and city lights very often administer existential meditations. Here we all are, going home. We are tired, maybe even worn. We have no choice, but as a congregating flock of beings to come, and now to go, like this. We cannot even recall, or remember, the day we arrived here, but still we are here. With nothing to do about it, but do as everyone else does, to smile at our friends, to make mashed potatoes and watch a film, and then later, sleep. Awakening in the darkened early morning to do it all again. To go. And then, come home.

Hoping tomorrow kisses us with fulfillment. Hoping perhaps tomorrow will glance at us with a heart of grace.