It's that time of year again, the time when Canada geese pass by in the early morning, heading south against the hunger and chill of the coming winter. Along the way -- so far away, yet near -- they honk and I am always refreshed as I sit on the porch sipping coffee.
It's sort of like the way the skin feels after using a loofa in the shower... I am scrubbed clean inside and out by a bunch of honking geese. The world is full of "thank you" without anyone's being stupid enough to say "thank you."
Whatever the miracles or mercilessness of worldly events, the geese honk. It is clear and clean and uncluttered by meaning or belief. Somehow this... is... it, before anyone was self-important enough to say "this is it!"
And it's not something to contrast with miracles or mercilessness. The clarity of their honking does not invite me to flee to some elevated state of mind, some salvor god who/which is ever so much nicer and purer than miracles and mercilessness. It is just honking, complete and whole and refreshing in its clarity.
Only after their honking passage do I feel the reminder of it all... that miracles and mercilessness are much the same -- honking if I would just listen. No need to be washed clean in the blood of the lamb, no need for "enlightenment" or "compassion," when the Canada geese fly south ... and honk.
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