The world is full of glory, almost too much to allow and
keep on any sort of track. So many
wonders. Just today, clouds building up
beyond reasonable heights, white voluminous ranges, shadowed by grey twists and
turnings, all laid across blue, they took my eyes off the traffic, demanding I
steer aside to gawk. So much for the
tracks.
And then thunder, rumbling, announcing the next armada
sailing down with lightning colonnades slamming and cracking through the
rain. So much for logic and agenda.
And yet through it all warps a thread that tracks a
journey, my own and sometimes another’s.
How could such a miracle be a background? It demands attention. But that’s what a tale is, a thread
surrounded by the wonder of the real.
That’s the real wonder, to see it all and still hold fast
to the identity that sees, to remember the scene and use the memory as a
setting for a gem, cut to fit, to fit the setting and to fit the one who
appreciates the ring.
Perhaps that’s why we tell stories, to remember and to
imagine, both. And something else, to
tell the tale, the memory and the journey that teller and listener share.
“Once upon a time…”
