Rhythm

Today as MegaWeave, the Mermaid and your's truly stood outside the front of our building, we were startled by the roar of the nearby beltway.
We were preparing to continue a prayer-walk started the week previous for our campus under the leadership of Dawny, and Mega' thought we should start at the front of our edifice.
We all share our stories of how we use imagination to make urban reality go away, namely road noise, and I believe we all came up with water metaphors. Because she is the MegaWeave, her's was the most appropriate match: a waterfall's rushing sound. I believe mine was a close second: the rushing of a white-water river. The Mermaid, because.. well.. she's a mermaid, said it reminded her of the ocean. Because I'm a broken person I had to correct her, and let her know why I thought that was a close match, but not the best: "The ocean speaks with a rhythm, a tidal sound like the heartbeat of the planet; this noise is constant." Something like that. Sorry.
But I reflected on it for a moment, and I liked the notion: the planet has a rhythm like the ocean tide, in.. out.. like the relaxed breathing of my dad right before he slips off into slumber in his easy chair after one of Rosemary's meals.

Rhythm. There is this pattern, this... cycle? The seasons exemplify it, even now as
The green of Spring
Has sprung this thing
Called life;
Verdant in tenderness,
This season of messiness drips
Rain upon souls of men and beast.

Perhaps it's the bipolar personality of February in Houston; perhaps it's the scent of.. sight of
Spring things that
Sprout new wings or
Budding trees that prove
That there is Life inside,
Like an expectant bride whose beauty is yet to be unveiled.

Fritillaries, bobbing and weaving today through God's Garden as I check the status of my new bird feeding stations erected therein; orange and overlooked, they do not evade the eye of childlikeness along this Gulf coast. Fritillaries; as predictable as the amazing passionate inflorescence that completes them. Predictable like it's kingly cousins who flutter to Central America and back each season, like a tide in it's rhythm of migratory Adventure.

Rhythm.
This downbeat of time, somewhere between chronos and kairos, conjures more than austral migrants; it chants from a deep spiritual whisper things ancient, even eternal. Today was such a day.

She wore ashes as she bought groceries tonight.