There is something. Nagging, begging, pleading to be created. What is this force? Is it art? is it music? a story? The music it conjures is ethereal, slow, wandering. The art abstract, yet appealing to one’s aesthetic faculty. The story… Oh where does the story begin? on the beach? It seems not. Perhaps in the sky; the realm of clouds, and drifting, soaring birds lofted by thermals, and insects- swift, not for swiftness’ sake, but to escape the grasp and jaws of the skilled dragon of the air: superb in acrobatics and sharp of wit. Lo! Behold the seed, drifting on the summer wind, suspended by its feathery canopy; its sole purpose to disperse the seed it carries, and continue the species.
Only the rustle of the trees far below disturbs one’s tranquil, mind-wandering slumber. The rhythm of the wind and the babbling, laughing stream beneath form a symphony so blissful, so sweet to the ears, it belies the true beauty of it all, that which is felt by the heart, which momentarily reminded of a lost comrade, is drawn from lament to pure celebration of the spirit, rejoicing in the miracle of life.
Soon the mind, having been disturbed of peace, wanders in a manner more actively seeking the answers to the great questions, mysteries that, for the time being, only Nature knows the answers to. Why> How? Who? In a short time the intellect abandons that pursuit, too, falling back on simpler (or seemingly so) topics. It is reminded of the constant devotion of companions, and the interactions of today, and how those interactions will influence tomorrow.
Will the loom of existence weave a tapestry thriving with joy and embellishment? Or will threads need to be cut; removed? Will the answers most meaningful, most purposeful be answered by external observation? by internal reflection? Or will they be answered by the brook, the breeze, and the butterflies?