the peaceful peacock

Some­times I flow grace­fully into change, like fall slips into win­ter, and some­times I crash onto the ground and lie there for awhile look­ing at the dirt right there up close.

Good thoughts come in that quiet study of rock.  Thoughts that have no ver­bal form, too ethe­real and filled with dust to grasp.

Things are chang­ing.  My world is evolv­ing.  This rope lad­der is sway­ing hard in these east­ern winds but I’m hold­ing on tight, steady and strong.  Filled with too many metaphors and a whirl­wind of hope and promise.

I can’t say what it is yet because I don’t quite know yet myself.  The shapes won’t form on my tongue, won’t trans­late from their cur­rent state.  It is bright and beau­ti­ful and I know it belongs right here in my heart, the place where  the wisps of a seed have been planted.

It starts, humbly as these things do, with a tiny empire of tea.  Some will see giants through the clouds here on the ground, some will see the terra firma that’s best for jump­ing.  I see the future.  It is good.

My life’s work has called.

I have answered.

Sokape.

Remem­ber when I told you about this?

I have an idea.  And it involves a lit­tle good natured mis­chief:

and an old tradition:

The only time I ever heard Ernie lament about being par­a­lyzed was when we would pass by the statue of John Boze­man, found­ing father of our fair city.  He would say, “You know, if I could walk for a day the first thing I would do is dance on his grave.”

Cheers, Ernie.  I’ve got a good one for you.

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ernie, Ernie Pepion, native american heritage