Being Itself

I go out into the bright morning, into metaphor and the clear, autumn air, hoping to find it, perhaps around a corner or further down the street where the bitumen meets and dissolves into a panoramic view, a portal - but it's never there. I listen out for it in the pause between waves, silent places and in the quiet lee of myself. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can almost hear its presence ease softly into a sound - but it's never really there. I have prayed for it to appear in holy places, in tall forests, running streams and deep in the solitude of stony deserts. I've searched for it in the stars, in the dervish dance of galaxies and in the smallest particle - but it's not there. I have sought it in suffering, in the ecstasies of love and in all the threads that go together to weave a life. I thought it would be near when the world around me was hurt and crying out - but it was not there. I go out into the cold evening, into the dark, pitiless air still hoping to find it just beyond the night, a few short steps away, through a shadow, past a fence and the perimeter of me, to where there is nothing - but Being itself.