Haiku

I used to examine the silk of kimonos and wonder if the seamstresses, or even the worms themselves, understood the tightly-knit poem that would someday emerge from the artisan perfecting the silken images.

It is not chance or luck or fortune that such beauty emerges (although in many ways there is a lot to be grateful for in terms of good luck), but rather through dedicated work and vigilance.  Beauty is the result of such care, such composition.  It is no accident, and there is no guarantee:  to some, a vision of beauty is life-altering; and to others, that same vision serves no purpose.

Careful study.  Careful, mindful study.  Being mindful at each moment.  Being mindful that moments build other moments, or they disperse into thin air like fading perfume, and there is no controlling which moment lingers and which moment leaves no trace, no memory.  Careful study and fine-tuned precision in thought, in detail, in behaviour, in wishing, in giving, in prayer.  Careful, careful prayer.

This care disciplines the mind, and when the disciplined mind calls out, a ripple swims forth and meets other ripples.

So what of the haiku?  It says that there are workings in this world which we will never perceive.  They must exist, for we know that -- in other measurements for other items -- such exist; but they will never be real to our untrained, imperceptive human senses.  Their existence, though, need not be a matter of debate.  We need not declare knowledge of all things in all time.  We may, indeed, relax and humble before the mystery, certain in our apprehension of a mystery, and sated.  And we could not possibly share in the priorities of all things, for each thing occupies different times.  Time is occupied differently by all things.  Time is sufficient, and it neither gladdens nor saddens the aurora borealis to vanish out of focus (for it may not even recognize our focus anyway, and why should it?)

So what of all of this?  This blog post is, simply, a reflection of a state of mind.  For a moment, I think of these things.  And I write them down.  I believe, too, that when one submits to something higher, something greater, it does not stop at the eyes or at the sun's corona, haloed over your head.  It is a state of mind that expands, neither gladly nor sadly but simply as a matter of course, and it brings art along with it.  A woman's art is her unique gift, and, submitted, I seek ways of giving gifts.