Remembering the mornings in Kerala

Every morning I wake to the field where the cows have breakfast with their friends, the white birds. The coconut palms stand guard. People come and go on the orange dirt road: women in their soft saris, the occasional man on a bicycle or a family on a scooter. It could be almost any year.

The wind is easy, gentle, and the birds make their calls at random.

Almost everything looks to have been here since the dawn of time, and it will no doubt be here until the final morning. The smell of fire, an ancient smell, is always on the air. The space holds all your thoughts, your dreams, and even those of everyone who has ever lived or will live.

God is here, right here. This is his temple. It has no walls. It is higher than the sky, and it reaches down deeper than you or I will ever see. It watches the sun’s rising. Later it makes his bed, so he has a place to rest, while it very softly holds the moon.

His temple holds your loves, all of them, in complete safety, and without loss.

Everything and all will pass through it. Yet it will simply remain, unchanged, ever green and ever fresh.

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About Russ Wollman

My feet are finally in the water, and I want to keep them there.
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