سانت جاكوب ايم فالدي

سانت جاكوب ايم فالدي

How do we know where we are going? How do we know where we are headed till we in fact or hope or hunch arrive? you can only criticize, the comfortable say, you don’t know what you want. Ah, but we do. We have swung in the green verandas of the jungle trees. We have squatted on cloud-grey granite hillsides where every leaf drips. We have crossed badlands where the sun is sharp as flint. We have padded into the tall dark sea in canoes. We always knew. #Peace, plenty, the gentle wallow of intimacy, a bit of Saturday night and not too much Monday morning, a chance to choose, a chance to grow, the power to say no and yes, pretties and dignity, an occasional jolt of #truth. The human brain, wrinkled slug, knows like a computer, like a violinist, like a bloodhound, like a #frog. We remember backwards a little and sometimes forwards, but mostly we think in the ebbing circles a rock makes on the water. The salmon hurtling upstream seeks the taste of the waters of its birth but the seabird on its four-thousand-mile trek follows charts mapped on its genes. The brightness, the angle, the sighting of the stars shines in the brain luring till inner constellation matches outer. The stark black rocks, the island beaches of waveworn pebbles where it will winter look right to it. Months after it set forth it says, home at last, and settles. Even the pigeon beating its short whistling wings knows the magnetic tug of arrival. In my spine a tidal clock tilts and drips and the moon pulls blood from my womb. Driven as a migrating falcon, I can be blown off course yet if I turn back it feels wrong. Navigating by chart and chance and passion I will know the shape of the mountains of #freedom, I will know.

بويلاو