Tracers

Tracers mark their path through the sky as I watch the air and wonder at the magic that is visible all around us, at every moment. I love watching the air. Refocus, away from all distractions and see the force that shapes it all. Like snow on the television, alternating dots of black and white, on and off, a pattern so random that only God can understand it. As hard as I try, the only way to know is to stop trying to know and just be. Be the black, and the white, and trust God to make sense of it all.

Magick. The stuff of fairytales that we are trained to forget but innately know exists. It's strange how the few memories I have seem more like a dream, yet more real than most my waking hours. Without memory we do not exist. Our bodies may continue to survive through instinct but our selves would dissipate with the last of the our sequential recollections. Why is magic so hard to believe in? We breathe it in with every breath.

Some one said that God's blessing to me was to end suffering. I don't believe that is God's plan. It is our suffering that makes us seek to end suffering, gives us compassion and helps us to appreciate when suffering ends. We are but a drop in the vast sea of being. There is no comprehending meaning yet that meaning creates itself with every moment. Sparks in the blue sky that appear and mark their path then fade into loveliness and another appears. Each one, individually, is a point of interest but the beauty is achieved when you see them all and see how alike each is, yet each just a speck on the great mosaic.