on the wind
When the sky is high and grey-and-white banded, there is room to breathe and breathe in again. When the wind is so strong and wild it nearly pulls you off the top up and over into the air it is easier to feel that you are held. And when for a moment you are still, listening, waiting, it is possible to hear above the clamour, beneath the masses a song which is outside your own story; which shakes and breaks up and turns over, ancient-old folding over freshly dawn-breathed new and resettling what you can see into shapes that are wiser and stiller and more real than the lines you could build from the inside.
‘I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the hope and the love are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought.
So the darkness shall be light and the stillness the dancing.’ Eliot, East Coker
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