Writings by Tim Girvin
w a s h e d

When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the morning light, for your life and strength. Give thanks for your food, and the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies with yourself.

-Tecumseh, Shawnee

I've been washed by wild dreams -- renderings of disruption, from a night cast of winds stripping the hillsides of everything, leaves cast up the hill.

I went out and wandered, and snow pocked the land; and it was moonlight, washing, where it could see. Everywhere else, shrouded in blackness, quivering life.

And I'm grateful, in this morning prayer, for seeing this.
All ways, here, there is more to sense. But really, is there? Or do I only take the time to wonder, then head to work, not counting what marvels there might be, in mornings elsewhere.

I have the time to engage, walking without clothes, to see this, myself in the glass, stepping naked in the dark, coolish gusts turning my hair.

And beneath all of the rushing sounds, there is one rhythm, aside from the slower beating of my heart -- wind trills the paper bark of the madrona, ruffling in time. It's a very low sound, like some spirit, turning the pages of a book.

Who's reading?

I am, though I am blind, turning the pages of the book, barely able to read the characters, that rip by...Something's there.

One day I'll read that tongue. For now, I can merely guess what's being said, in sound, in writing, that riffles by, telling tales that I can only imagine, lost language of forget fullness that I'm trying to remember.

What's forgotten?

How to re-mind, rewind in this moment, looking for what is being said. Rather than what you want the telling to be; it's listening for what truth there is, in the heart of your openings.

All ways, one step now. Two, tomorrow.

tsg / decatur island
(Originally sent: October, 30 2004)

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