Yesterday afternoon, walking east of Victoria’s Breakwater along the Dallas Road cliffs, above the brilliant cerulean skin of the Pacific, a cirrus “feather” cloud formed above us.
I stopped in the middle of the trail, reached up to take its picture. I stood there, my head cranked back, until the dizzy point arrived and a couple wearing concerned smiles moved past me.
There are days when things cohere, and stillness and clarity draw near as if on cat feet.
There are days when love floods our calculations and manipulations, and this world-in-travail drops away, exposing those petty resentments that lead us to war (within and without), and we change a little, if we wish.
There are days when every crystalline cloud prisms a rainbow of ways through your darkness, signals the glory of drawing breath on this earth, offers you the great bounty of just enough.
And there are day’s when you arrive exactly where you should be; a place that’s not “down on any map,” as Melville said, “true places never are.”