Landing the Sacred

Abstract

Somewhere near the beginning of my memory I find myself on windy ground. I must be little more than a toddler, playing on what appears to be a large, open paddock. The wind is running up behind me, catching my shoulders, then rushing out ahead of me. The grass (it seems so tall) is always bending away from me. And in this memory I have picked a dandelion flower (we used to call them 'Santa Claus') and am blowing on it until its globe breaks up and out into a myriad of tiny seeds. I am trying to retrieve as many as I can from the drifting air. It isn't easy. But it feels good: the movement of the wind, the movement of my hand, the staying power of earth, and the dandelion seeds, so there and so out of reach, like tiny parachutes of hope.