Pungent sage is smoking on my table, ash crumbling into the bowl I’ve placed it in. I like to watch smoke rise and billow. Smoke paints the shape of the air, how it moves in waves, shifting, mercurial. Knowing that oxygen and nitrogen are ever weaving unseen around us. Have you ever seen dried leaves in a parking lot skip and spin on a dervish of wind? Like a mini tornado. All the result of the sun heating and cooling the Earth’s surface. Sunshine, moonshine. Breeze and billow.
Magic lives in mundane places, just under the skin of the known. In the place between waking and dreaming. In stillness. In the space between thought and no-thought. Pure awareness. That’s where beauty breeds, or the consciousness of it at least. Where we can see the suchness of a thing, the something more. The energy imbuing things, you might say. The potential.
So the smoke is not just smoke. It’s a poem, curling unknown scripts in the air. The whirlwind of leaves is a dance.