Prehistoric art is hanging on my door jam.
The earth if full of wild things, strange wonders I cannot wrap my mind around.
Hanging from the wood stripping of our home are prehistoric shells of creatures who have emerged from years of living underground, to shed their old worn out skins, leaving them behind as they spread their wings to dance their dance and sing their buzzing song, to reproduce new generations of their kind so that the singing of creation would go on.
What a strange sight to see their old skins hangings there now empty with the intricacies of the cave shells of themselves.
It is all a step back and an entering into, what has been and always will be, the life line of reality. It is the sound of the ancient and the prehistoric. It is the space in between the silence of eternity beckoning my heart to surrender to its vast holiness. I hear the words in the whispering ways, “You cannot fathom its wonders but only sink into its being. Your peace has come to nestle on the ear of your heart.”
I wonder about the hidden wholeness inside of all of us and the old skins we lumber around in the dark of our underground being to emerge into something entirely new if only for a short time to feel the wind in our wings and the buzz inside of our song and the dance of day and night until we fall again into the ground of new life emerging year after year so that the songs of creation would go on.
Wild things!