Perichoresis

creation's iridescence

Neither hot nor cold but perfectly
temperate – we watch and celebrate
her waving and turning, singing and
smiling, echoing and flying, through
and around and above and beneath
iridescent infinities quite
beyond prior experience or
any ability even to
begin to comprehend, let alone
give voice to. The old words don’t fit. Here
flowers are like flowers but are not –
and some figures are like lambs or lions
but only for less than might once have
been called a second before all time
telling became redundant. And stars
and galaxies explode into view but
don’t appear to grasp or occupy
more space than seems appropriate or
perfect design. A wave, a smile, an
echo, flight through, around, above and
beneath. Neither division, hunger
or thirst, wearyness or waiting but
one exquisite union, one perfect
creating – every thought and atom
redeemed and sustained by the cosmic
dance processing paradise – yearning
for which makes life on earth cry out and
reach for her song, smile, flight and echo

SRM

I think he did

Fluent

I would love to live
Like a river flows,
Carried by the surprise
Of its own unfolding.

John O’Donohue
Conamara Blues

Me too. I think he did, and I think he was, and probably still is.

I’ve just been gazing upon a photograph of my elderly father beaming upon my smiling infant granddaughter. Perichoresis.

I think they do, and I think they both are, too.