Yesterday morning I stepped into the Arizona sunlight, facing the mountains, and felt, more than heard, the chatter of a flock of birds. Simultaneously, behind me, dove was calling softly. Unexpectedly, suddenly, I was transported from that place and time. I experienced a hundred awakenings to that mournful call; I was, again, overcome with a sense of safety, of being held, as surely only a baby can feel. Was it my heart, my chest, or all of me opening, loosening, radiating?
This all occurred in a few short minutes. I know this because we were about to leave for the airport, to return home, and I had requested a moment outside alone. But there was a timelessness to the experience, that, when it was over, I wanted to hold on to. And I remembered this:
Only Once by Denise Levertov
All which, because it was
flame and song and granted us
joy, we thought we’d do, be, revisit,
turns out to have been what it was
that once, only; every invitation
did not begin
a series, a build-up: the marvelous
did happen in our lives, our stories
are not drab with its absence: but don’t
expect to return for more. Whatever more
there will be will be
unique as those were unique. Try
to acknowledge the next
song in its body — halo of flames as utterly
present, as now or never.