Looking for a time to meet, you were open, I had prior commitments.
No problem, I thought, I'll look at a new date.
Not so fast ... My "no problem" is a problem.
Aghast, I notice my commitments get between you and I being together.
What's possible here? That's the question. But before I can ask it, for
just one moment there's a thought "Impossible. Can't do it. Won't
work.". It's more than that actually. It's I'm disappointed,
mortified. It's a throwback from a past life. It's a human
enough emotion to have. The trouble is for just a moment, for just
one moment, I believe it.
In the split second it takes for me to believe it, to buy into
it, the opportunity flies away. The falcon's taken off, now soaring
again at a dizzy height. Yet but a moment ago it descended in unhurried
spiral swoops to alight on my shoulder, uncompromising, tame, trusting,
this majestic killer perfect
O, I am fortune's fool ... It took me too long,
reveling in the faux triomphe of the simple synchronicity
of the moment.
Nothing with you is without value. Everything with you has
value. Anything. Everything. I'm thrown to be seduced by the allure of
the predictable, of the comfortable. Not surprisingly that distinction
gets clear in my listening for your spoken stand for that which is
unpredictable, for that with which comfort isn't
necessarily an option.
That's when I notice I've not got my attention on my
intention. That's when I notice I'm going for the cheese and end
up in the jaws of a
The brilliance in the way you've set it up is just in the process of
life itself the perniciousness with which
predictability and comfort creep into my life is confronted. The
false promise of the predictability and of the comfort is
I'll get somewhere. When I stand in being here
I can be with you even when I'm without you. I see
when I'm without you I can invent the possibility of being without
when I'm without you I can invent the possibility of being with you.
In inventing the possibility of being with you, I start to see my bias
towards predictability and comfort isn't
If I give it up, what would become available?
In the face of giving it up there's a new opening. I get a new idea.
Then I get another idea, another possibility.
In the instant the new possibility comes, the falcon suddenly
reappears, a mere dot on the dizzy height, wings outstretched gliding
on a thermal, eyeing me, considering landing on my shoulder again,
watching me and everything in every direction crystal clearly ...