Chance meetings.
Blind dates.
Overseas adventures.
Moments of beshert.
The times when the small voice speaks to you and you lean towards it. That indistinguishable light, our neshama, a flame burning bright within never tarries or wavers regardless of how far one strays.
The truth of moments that were page-turners in our own book of life.
Unknown to the seeker, but revealed in due time.
How can one unravel these choices? Tightly braided instances that revealed hidden layers we had known would distinguish the character traits we hope to behold.
Now, standing on the other side of the mountain of grief I seemingly traversed in my mind, the view on the other side is something I never would have imagined. Hindsight is always twenty twenty. The changes that life unfolds are never truly felt until one lives them.
They were once merely ideas.
Now they are lived experiences.
I can sit comfortably and not say anything, but yet listen more intently.
The world continues to turn.
The day becomes night.
The night becomes day.
How lucky are we?
These sunrises and sunsets, years later reveal new colors, rainy days, splashes in puddles beneath our feet. Wet cheeks from rain or tears it does not really matter. The distinguishing of my own pathway, looking back and seeing that the other led to a wondrous and mighty oak still standing tall, but feeling miles behind my own.
Where might mine lead?
The days may reveal.
Onwards toward the unknown.
Seeking light filtered beneath the branches of other’s tree limbs. Some bare, others full of layered pine needles, whispered branches, and lightly brushed with the rings of time.
Continued travels on this spinning planet.
Feet firmly planted in the ground, here I stand for now enjoying the view. The mountain she asked to be laid beneath. The trees swaying, wishing she could enjoy the view with me. A breeze caresses my cheek as it sweeps the ocean breeze, and waves crash beneath our feet. A fleeting memory lives in the atmosphere. Plucked like a cloud from above. See? It says. I’m still here. I am grateful to the one who introduced my parents so they could marry on this same day. The winter solstice. The moment she left, she went onwards on a metaphysical journey alone. Time stood still as I blinked, and the moment passed. Sand and children beneath my feet.
Traversing still.
Onwards the journey, with miles to go before I sleep, said Whitman. That is so aptly put. And hineini, here I am still.
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