The spiritual practice of getting high enough

Today, the sky is gray, the color of dull pewter. Not exactly rainy, but a soft mist most of the day  brought leaves to their knees and darkened the pavement. A chill in the air confirmed that, once again, winter will have its say. An ugly day as a harbinger of more ugly days to come.

And yet.

At lunch, I sat at my window and watched as the wind tumbled leaves ass over teakettle. Brittle and brown. Plie and en pointe and glissade, like a troupe of weightless wrens, some scudding across my balcony or hovering, undecided, over the table top. In the background, a Mozart piano sonata on the radio. 

From street level, I’m sure it  felt damp and chilly and mildly unpleasant. But from the third floor — maybe for anyone who was able to get high enough above the everyday dreariness of it – there was magic not only in the moment but in the way an otherwise bleak day transformed into art and blessed my spirit. A scene from a black-and-white film. A passage from Jane Austin. Lyrics by Ira Gershwin, set to Mozart.

• Bookmark on Delicious
• Digg this post
• Recommend on Facebook
• share via Reddit
• Share with Stumblers
• Tweet about it
• Subscribe to the comments on this post