Floating Under the Moonless Sky

This post was originally published on June 16, 2015 on River-Bliss.com.

Oh, the bliss of being out here on the river during late sunset! Come float with me.

It's getting dark. The colors in the sky are quite vivid, and I'm floating in my kayak. The birds are singing their goodnight songs, the frogs are croaking, and I'm feeling incredibly light. There is an unidentified, sweet, floral fragrance in the air, and so far I've seen two beavers swim by me. Such peace! I breathe slowly and deeply.
 

I have not a care in the world. Everything is right with my world. Everything is hush. All personal concerns are so far away when I'm out here floating. They can't reach me and have no pull on me. I smile and fill with joy.

The colors deepen from moment to moment. Being under this sky is like watching an enormous Polaroid picture developing.

I worked an 11-hour day today and have so much to do in the next eight days that it makes my head spin when I think about it. But not right now. Now is all just peace. I feel so light. I'm dictating into a voice recorder so I can write, and then I will write so I can remember that this state of being exists. It's one big ahhhhhh.

The first light I see is a plane making its way across the sky as its reflection sails across the water, almost like the flight of a mosquito because of the gentle ripples on the surface of the water bouncing it around.

This is the real me. The unconditioned stillness. I recall when I felt grief deep down in my bones. Now I feel peace and joy just as deep. A line from Kahlil Gibran's "On Joy and Sorrow" from The Prophet goes through my mind: "The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain." It's not an unbridled, frenetic joy but a balanced, full-bodied joy steeped in tranquility. When you've been down as low as I've been recently, it's such a blessing to feel this way. You really appreciate it.

I perceive a lengthy decrescendo of birdsong. Fewer birds are singing now.

I observe two pinpoints of light in the sky, which I determine (after several minutes) to be celestial bodies, perhaps Venus and Jupiter. One is larger and brighter, and the other is tinier, fainter, and higher above the horizon. I could have sworn they were airplanes. It's so hard to tell what's moving and what's stationary out here. I'm drifting on the water, the clouds are floating in the sky, and I can't tell if the pinpoints of light are moving or if everything around them is.

The sky grows dimmer, and the air becomes cooler. It feels wild to be out on this great river alone with all these sounds in the stillness under the darkening sky. I feel so alive, even tingling. Surely, this spacious serenity is my more natural, open state. It feels like being Home.

Star light, star bright,

First star I see tonight,

I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have this wish I wish tonight.

I wonder: What does my heart wish for? To follow love, not fear, and to experience right now what it would be like to let that energy flow like this river. Imagining this makes my whole body smile. Makes me feel vibrant and liberated.

I look in the direction of the swamp - where the frogs are croaking in the distance - and notice what at first glance appears to be car lights coming down the road. But they're not. The fireflies have come out! I've been waiting to see them flashing their light in the darkness, looking for love. The light show has begun. Now there are no birds singing at all. The sky is almost completely dark. There will be no moon tonight.

The first few stars are twinkling in the sky, the fireflies are flashing below, and all the light is reflected on the water like a mirror. Some fireflies are near the ground, and some are way up at the very tops of the trees.

The sight I'm most drawn to (besides the light of the fireflies) is the rippling light on the water, the reflection of the last remaining light in the sky. Light and darkness dance on the surface of the water in a wavy pattern.

I barely can make out a beaver swimming in front of me. I can only tell by the interplay of light and shadows moving silently on the surface of the water. If I were to start paddling, the beaver would slap its tail on the water, adding a percussive touch - like a kettledrum - to the swamp symphony.

Now there's almost no light whatsoever, so I decide to head back to the dock. This is such a different state of consciousness than the gravity of being on land.

But there is grace upon returning home, for the light of hundreds of fireflies flashes in the back yard in a spectacular light show. It looks magical, like the light of hundreds of fairies - and fills me with delight.

I hope you can feel it, too.

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