just back from the Gaspe and a bucolic wedding at Lac Bijou, wee man-made lake with a tiny island and a bridge to the island. lit by torches at night, fairy like. the giant white tent with 3 peaks, big enough for 170 people, the dancing 'villagers', musicians and singers and talent, the family love, the huge heart-filled space we created as we celebrated my brother-in-law and his wife/love.
driving back 11 hours yesterday, it was sun and rain, sun and rain, huge banks of cumulous clouds, black nimbus, green marshes and flowers blooming along the roadside in clumps of yellow, blue, white and purple.
the St-Lawrence river by turns slate coloured or blue, shining or misty, curving or straight, and the mountains we drove through, winding and smooth-paved new roads easing our delivery back to Montreal
there are travel days like that when time is suspended, punctuated by french fries, doughnuts and iced cappucinos or Tim Horton's homemade soup....watching the Tudors on dvd in the back seat....or chewing gum to stay awake at the wheel
and the many stops for Mollie the shitzu mix to stretch her wee legs....
and now we're home, the pool needs filling, the flowers were watered by rain, but bedraggled, the wash is in the washer, smells of bleach in the kitchen and I'm here, writing about the return to normalcy after being suspended in a 4-day party mode.
what I want today is to travel deeply into the thirst for quiet that has surfaced, the need for re-collecting, re-vising, re-viewing, settling into thought and words again. the white room that is empty of all stimuli is not available, the chalet or cabin in the woods not ready yet, but there is this inner space, this separation from time and 'doing' and 'going', this place where I receive myself, sit and listen attentively and find out where and what the impulse is, the in-pulse.
Bella has reminded me of Rumi's heart-logic, so here's what I read just now:
Food for the soul stays secret.
Body food gets put out in the open
like us. Those who work at a bakery
don't know the taste of bread like
the hungry beggars do. Because the
beloved wants to know, unseen things
become manifest. Hiding is the
hidden purpose of creation: bury
your seed and wait. After you die,
all the thoughts you had will throng
around like children. The heart
is the secret inside the secret.
Call the secret language, and never
be sure what you conceal. It's
unsure people who get the blessing."
from Coleman Barks' the Soul of Rumi
I am hungry for the secret heart's revelation. Back to the bakery, then,