The trill of a Redwind blackbird outside the window. The slow spread of the clouds, high, white, moving at the erotic speed of a snail, drawing across the sky their delicious parade of slowness.
The amaryllis sits extended and spread in absolute stillness quiet quiet quiet, everything is so incredibly quiet. The fresh viburnum tips green, sun shining though their translucent skin, the same quiet turned towards the air and sweep of sky. Listening, being.
The window sash locks, poised, at attention, transfixed by the sky. All the same. Sitting. Listening. Brimming.
What is devotion? Does devotion have a self? A future? A past? A concept to which it gives itself?
No. I think not. I look, and that is not what I see. The clouds, the amaryllis, the window sash locks, the viburnum, they show something else.
I see stillness. I see glory. I see hearts rend open forever, here. I see devotion with no self, no future, no concept to give itself to.
By their grace, their example, by them I move into a sweeter understanding of myself. By their lead I am shown, I am ushered.
I am that. You are too. Find it.