My Mother, in her ineffable gathering and gifting, passed along this small piece of glass, worn and earthen, one side, polished and melted, another — like the beached glass of old bottles, white glass, blue and softened hints of pastel colorations (and in hidden places, still polished and reflective).
I put this outside, since it seemed better to be getting more weathered — and out in the sun, aging more, than being cherished inside, and I knew that my Mother would like that — the gift that gives, in meditation and recollection, not in adding to the clutter of “more stuff.”
That glass in a way, has a symbolic virtue — one, to the roughened and maturing visioning of love — as a progressive experience; while it’s textured and imperfect, slightly translucent, it has the patina of time and observation, the contact with many souls — and the sands of time, the salted waters of the great expanse of the Mother Sea. Subtle movements, multiplied by millions of tidal strokes, that surging — adds to the experience of the multitudinous whispers of contact.
I think of the two sides of love – that, the newly experienced; the other – the maturing love of the ages; each, passing along and growing as it might.
Seeing that in the mosses and curled pine needles and dirt of the rainy outdoors, it nestled there like a heart of time — in which case, it could be there forever. Burying itself, nestled in the grass and stone, moving back, finally over the multiplicity of tides, back to her.
T | Miami Beach
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