The Heat Of Our Now

Out on the water—looking toward the mountains— is where it always seems that tomorrow resides. Back to the sunrise, front facing sunset, hopes flung out on a thread of thought that unreels to land too close still.

Casting, casting, back and forth above. Finally the thread lands on the other side of the mountains into tomorrow. That’s where hope lands, in the place where the sun says goodnight and we fold our hands, fold our wings. We did what needed doing, always thinking about tomorrow.

And the now is where our shoes stand. Looking down at our feet in them we are rooted in presence. Neither before nor after, our now expands, our feet melt down through the earth, all the way to China, where it all began.

The heat of our now becomes all things: temperature so hot we bypass ash and are pure light. We reflect nothing, we absorb everything, become each blade of grass, each owl, each blue spruce, each saguaro, each knothole in each weathered board in each ghost town. Each growling stomach, each blue screen, each pair of shoes, rooted in the now, expanding into the All.

So many at once casting their thought threads over the mountains into tomorrow that the air above is thick with filaments— a tapestry is being woven. Cast ye your filaments of joy and hope and eager anticipation!


The hills across have gathered tribes of trees that watch me, all of them, from afar, to see what I will do. Without judgment but with interest, each tree has cast towards me a thought-thread of hope for tomorrow. They attach lightly, thousands of energized filaments. A tree’s hope feels like calm expectation. No way to go wrong, really. Just feel it….