It’s five-thirty in the morning, and dark.

Dark when I wake up. Dark when I go to bed. Murky, much of the day — autumn clouds, mist and rain muffle the contours of the Pacific Northwest landscape where I live.

Light. The memory of light.

Beneath the closed eyelids of night, the sun shines.

I can’t see it, but I know it’s there.

The sun shines in my belly, in my heart. I can’t see it, but I know it’s there. Its deep, warm hum fills my body — a hive of honeybees.

I love the night; its tender, velvet skin. Intimate, friendly — innocent. Newborn.

A spill of stars glimmering – small footprints across the sky.

A reminder. The floor of home — the earth beneath my feet; its ceiling — the deeply woven thatch of the universe. Its hearth, the sun.

Some days, that’s all I know. Some days, that’s all I need to know.

The to-do lists, the push and pull of clock-time – momentarily dissolved in the great river of stars.

This is the place of dreaming. This is the time when my future sails downriver to meet me. To play.

The silver current of its life mingles with mine – an unfolding miracle of light, emerging.

Making the long journey from There to Here.