Saturday, July 24, 2004

The Swallow as Shadow

When I had my first stroke and was dieing, I (my shadow?) looked down at my body slumped there on the floor and decided this wasn't the right time to move on. The memory of this is very clear; and, this Pima poem speaks to me of that critical moment in my life:

Many people have gathered together,
I am ready to start the race,
And, the swallow with beating wings
Cools me in readiness for the word.

Far in the west the black mountain stands.
Around which our racers run at the noon.
Who is this man running with me,
The shadow of whose hands I see?