the tree of life in rumi’s field neath van goghs skies

First glimpse of There was 17 years ago, and while she claimed that she was unguided and purposeless, nothing could have been farther from the truth.

~

The Fabric of her life had unfolded by the time she was 17, but she didn't have the temperament to scale high enough vista points to survey the lay. If she had, the valleys would have been recast as collection points; the terrible ascents and descents the Journey's refiners; the mountaintops hope's resting places (but never final destinations).

The books would have formed a patchwork roof over her head, letting some ideas in and bouncing others away like wayward hailstones.

The teachings would have tilled the soil, rich and fecund from fabric's edge to fabric's edge.

The friends and lovers and family and Others would have tended to the fabric in their own fashions. Some would have mended threadbare patches, some would have made the thin spots worse, and some would sleep through it all, waking to cast aspersions or seed grace as Grace would have it.

~

That was Then and There. This was Here and Now, riddles wrapped in paradox: (How you could lat and long "Here" - an abstract that changed as you moved, both physically and mentally? And where was Now? Even the act of labelling it antiqued and pigeonholed it; walling it off from the ineffable).

And so she learned to abide, wrapping herself in St. Francis's entreaties and climbing the Tree of Life and sleeping in Rumi's field underneath Van Gogh's perfect skies.

Relative and Absolute shepherded her, the fire of Being warmed her, and the Living Waters that flowed through her pen and easel cleansed Other's fabric's as they walked each other Home.