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Sunday, January 25, 2009

Sitting in the Garden

I sit in this garden. I see the line between sun and shade. I listen to the robin: insistent and not particularly musical today, but as cheerful as can be. Kind of like listening to a tone-deaf child who sings idly and happily while he colors.


Now the robin flies away and I'm left with my thoughts.


A stone shrine dominates the garden. In front of it is a grouping of old stones. They've been there for a while, you can tell by the grass growing up between them. And in the midst of the stones is what looks like a large, hollowed-out rock about the size of a truck wheel. The sun just touches an edge of it, but the sun cannot penetrate the blackness of the hollow in its center. The hollow can not be larger than the stone itself, I know, but it looks as if it contains all the darkness of the Universe. Here is where you go to find what you need. You descend into this hollow. You stay there. And when you leave, you bring with you those murky, damp elements that are such an integral part of you, but that you would never even know about were it not for the dark hollow of this stone.


And as you sit in the garden, as you descend into the deep dark, the stone shrine guides you, watches you, and protects you.


Copyright 2009 Ann Tudor