Last night a friend of mine approached me with “the look” all over his face. He had been rattled by God, actually, God’s landscape. He tried to explain what had happened to Him. He had been exposed to something new to Him, at least new in the particular light of his last few days. He stumbled and stammered. I heard him more clearly than ever. I speak that stammering tongue.
Art, poetry, symbol and metaphor shake us awake, open our eyes and ears to the new or make the known new to us. They open wide the horizon of hope in our lives. My friend saw something precious and costly that though hidden in broad daylight, dazzles at dusk.
Dusk’s mellowed, warm light lends us shadows and archetypes. Good guesses at what just might be, if only we apply imagination and intuition.
I too am walking in a dusk drowned landscape. New shapes and sirens arrest me and then force me forward.
It would seem a lonely place, but every few steps another sojourner and I seem to back into one another… pursuing just a little more perspective, as if a little distance would grant us clearer discernment.
In this nearly night, I have found myself less alone, more alive than in the busyness of broad day. This place is the magician’s stage, the poet’s paradise. I am home.