Air - Prose

Air

And when I awoke I saw

That all the practices of all the

The earnest people

Were made of the same air.

It was the same air.

The same -

That swirled around the hands

Of the culted practitioners,

That swished around the cloak

Of the friar,

That blew into the mesa

Of the Laika,

That eased as Ohm from the smile

Of the Lama,

Exhaled as prayer from the mouth

Of the Imam,

Smiled out of the blissed joy

Of the yogi,

Fell in chants from the tongue

Of the Hindu,

Yelled hallelujah from the lungs

Of the Christian,

Was displaced by the lovers wrapped

In sacred, forested Pagan ritual…

It was the same.

The air existed with or without these

People;

Was indifferent to their

Holiness

It was all the same.

The sacred air,

That gifted space,

That kindly bubble
That surrounds in gentle hug

Gaia, Earth, Pachamama, Unci…

Was merely the breath of Creator

And what we humans chose to do in it

Made no difference to S/he

Other than for the humans themselves

To grow or not

To die or not

To be reborn or not

But certainly to experience

For to play in the breath of Creator
The holy air we breathe

Was the whole of Its purpose

To give “Us” a place to go

So that each could return

And know that we had never left

And to learn that all the actions taken

While in the story

Were only that -

A story to be told -

Around deep campfires

Lit by twinkling stars

Carried on the breath

Of those profound

Weary

Humble

Courageous

Travelers

As we await

The lost pieces of ourselves

To return from the darkness

And tell us

Yet another

Story.

--Eric Marley

September 2015