The image with the prism rainbow is a reflection from my window and I think it looks pretty neat especially as it gives the shadow some light and fits pretty well with the story.
I forgot to add some snippets from the book, so here they are 🙂
There is a silent calm travelling through his life, it permeates his being, his actions, his connections: he is a tree amongst the noises of humanity. Sometimes he thought of himself as wandering in soulless oblivion, then he thought of himself as wandering in search of she who understands. She who is equal to his silence; she who is the shadow to his tree, or he the shadow of hers.
Sitting one time in the silence and deathly stillness of an emerging sunrise he had a moment of acuity, for there on the horizon time was being born. He became aware of how mighty is silence and stillness and of how, even for a few seconds, this gap in time was magical and eternal. He lived in this moment and came to see the endless possibilities of thought.
The raven in the sunshine gleams in its blackness. Its bulky shadow gives flight to its consciousness and thus its intelligence. Its beak points while those eyes, looking beyond what mere humans can see, penetrate the arena and off into the fields of time and mystery where the knowledge of all things become known. The raven in the sunshine gleams deep in the pleasure of its secrets, and at once he sees the beauty of it all, but seeing is not having. He can hear the distant musicians. He can see the collection of art. He can see the butterfly dazzling the flower with its own beauty. He can see the clouds as they move in their silent caress of the universe. He can see the colours of humanity, and at once the pain of it all struck him with sharp needles of confusion.
Naked are the stars in winter as they caress the evening sky with their immense solitude, like so many leaves blinking when they fall and flutter in the breeze as moonlight kisses them. He lays upon the ground watching the rhythmic blinking where he drifts into an unconscious moment of trepidation. Dare he allow himself to sink into the flesh of life shining above him? Dare he allow his soul to touch those many deaths and births? Dare he begin to forget her so he can begin to know her? Dare he and if he dares, how does he begin?
We are never alone, even when we feel broken, when our solitude hurts, for there is always a remembered presence of a feeling from a moment when we were touched by another’s soul whose feathers, broken as they were, became a warm seed of healing inside us, almost as if, by being damaged, they released some essential matter, some essential magnetism which attracted the same from us.
And there you see, even in our painful solitude, we are never alone if we can pause to remember that soft touch of pain from broken wings.
How small are we to believe we are any bigger than the ant, restrained as we are in our belted psychology of belief thinking because we are what we are we have the right to trample, for we do trample, upon the lesser creatures (humans included).
How small are we to believe we are anything other than oil on the surface of life’s pond where we are different from the tree, the mountain, the wind, the elephant or the ant.
How small are we, how insignificant compared to the simpleness of an elephant’s soul, the intricate beauty of a petal’s unfurling, the deep touch of a snowflake’s silence, or the magnificent strength of an ant’s gift.
How small are we, when stained and shamed (as T. E. Lawrence’s wisdom says) into pettiness by the innumerable silences of stars, for we are seedling soil beneath an ant’s belly looking up searching for a chink of light from one of those silent stars.
How small are we, looking for a light to show us the way when if we were to look within for the light we were born with, the light of essential being, the light of truth in who we are, of a belief in us as simple beings we would see how we are, each of us, one beautiful person who is no bigger than the ant, who is no bigger than one’s self who is one beautiful speck of life.
How small are we to believe we are any bigger than the ant.
The heart of wisdom is in all things. If we want to learn, if we want to be better, if we want knowledge then we must allow the things we want to approach us freely and without force of thought or pressure of desire, for wisdom begins, as the oak begins, in moments of pure freedom and innocence.
We cannot use force to unlock potential. Wisdom is here inside us now, and out there, and so to reach the heart of this knowledge, and to grow, we must begin to understand that first and foremost we are such little things, such inconsequential things.
We must settle ourselves and turn to nature, for there her heart breathes for us, and there, when we have understood, we shall begin to see, to feel this joy building inside us, and to know that the heart of wisdom is in all things.