The Beauty of Life

Where are we in the middle of the stream of life’s fast and vast moving ocean?

Are we on the wave, moving towards shore? Have we crashed again? Pulling back towards the merging with eternity, to rise again, -such joy it is to rise again and take on the momentum, the thrilling speed of how high, how big, how powerful the force, just before the crash.

Is it as the swarm of birds all taking off in a flowing motion of soaring? Together. But one by one? Shaping a cloud of black wings all squeaking with exhilaration for just this one instinctively, collectively created parade of flight. Up. Taking a sharp turn to their right, just above us, as if showing us off, we humans cannot fly. ‘This! what airborne means!’

We surrender to a different Air, the wind on our faces all the same, we are flying. Out and about in the evening, it is first summer-like of its kind.

All the notions are there. The tasty smell of salt teases our nostrils, as the scent is carried from the beaches behind the small hills and ice-age rock scattered fields. The mood wild, un-tamed once released, first quarter Moon beaming her Venusian kiss upon us still, echoing the playfulness and zest from another portal but days ago, like connecting the dots and an image appears, one that will fit the shape given in another image on a Winter's day with a promise of exactly this.

And this spirit seems to be keeping her promises. Her magic is potent. Manifesting according to plan as long as the rituals were performed, ceremonies conducted.

Out here in the open space, the windy scene, landscapes flat, offering us no other option than to cast the eyes out, afar and up.

The mix of wind and sharp setting Sun make water well in the eyes that behold, like a tiny alchemic miracle, and we do catch the blue Angel on film. The Sun throwing his final beams at us, theatrically and bleedingly dying he falls so fast to the horizon. The day is turning red.

We are alone on the heath. The Ocean ahead of us. The forest. The Rocks. The Wind. The dying Sun.

The birds land again, the same place they took off. We wonder what stirred them. Instinct? (A Fire drill?) A gift for us to behold?

He holds more than my hand. I hold more than his. Hearts and Souls are involved in the holding. There is no one out here, but us. The magic. The Air. The mystery of Nature.

Some waves take on bigger momentum, than we know, when they first roll on. Some of those collect their crashes much later, holding their intensity while other currents play their part. We can be sure, they pull that back with them to the Ocean of eternity something that will be thrown back into another wave, and then another, and then another. It's the motion of the ocean. And it's the currents of life.

The beauty of Life. We are here. In it.