Sunday morning. On the way to groceries I pull into a Starbucks to while away an hour or so. The music is louder than I would prefer and the lyrics distract. It is quiet I desire, a church-like meditative hush. The Cafe is closed and church simply does not serve, so I, like so many I know, am left clamoring for that special space away.
In the interstices of my daily round I am giving Black Elk Speaks a reread. At the age of nine his Great Vision came upon him. He grew sick and his parents feared he was dying. After twelve days he returned, changed, in the eyes of those who knew him older, graver.
From then on the voices were never far. And yet, at the heart of his powerful testament is a regret for not having given full utterance to the Truths that were vouchsafed him. Too many distractions. The hunt and the path of war, love and travel.
Noise and distractions abound, and it requires a great deal of effort to create the calm from which meaningful, purposeful action arises.
As I write this thin wisps of cloud drift lazily across a pale blue sky. A hot air balloon ascends gradually and moves in silent grace eastward, nudged by the gentlest of breezes.
My mug is empty. Chores beckon.
Perhaps later in the day my wife, Sonny-boy, and I will raft leisurely down the River. Fall is in the air and there won’t be many more opportunities.
And tomorrow it’s back to work.