The Numinous

Numinous (adjective): Etymologically speaking, tracing the twisting path of language back to the ancient, Latin root, this word simply means a nod of the head, or more precisely in its proper passive-voice form, “Numen,” it refers to that which is produced by a nod of the head.

A simple nod. An assurance, an assent, an acknowledgment, and then a subtle, warmhearted wink.

“You've got this. Go!”

And the first domino tips and topples. An effect has been summoned forth by its cause—"...that which is produced by a nod."

Numinous. The emphatic nod of a stately grey head from the back of a darkened room.

“I am here. Proceed.”

Numinous. Of great power and ancient presence, leaning back in a cozy well-worn, inviting old armchair beside a crackling fire. And a folding of wrinkled hands over a warm belly. A tip of the head and glowing eyes glinting across the top of old spectacles.

A deep breath in, and then…

Flowing, slow and sure as the great chest, and folded wrinkled hands, and belly settle into that great, cozy armchair beside that little, crackling fire. A breath goes out

And then a nod.

“Now you’re getting it. Go for it.”

Numinous. The overwhelming sense in the darkness of power swelling up from behind, beneath, before.

And a purple glow.

Of the folding of great wrinkled hands over a great warm belly and a settling back into a cozy old armchair and a wink, and a nod.

“It’s me, you see,” and so it was all along.

…and I am up at the chalkboard trembling on frail schoolboy legs and I’m almost out of chalk but I’m scribbling and just then I hear the slow encouraging clap, clap, clap from the darkness at the back of the chilly empty classroom. Old wrinkled, chalk-stained teacher’s hands slowly clap, clap, clap—“Finally my boy; finally you are seeing it.” Clap, clap, clap, whole eternities between each thunderous blow. Thundering and silent all at once. Thundering and silent as I scribble this out with my blunted chalk nub. Finally I am getting it, is what the voice said from the back of the room, but I can’t hear any more against the wind and howl of the last lost-end alley of the universe, at that old creaking chalkboard as light falls and the ground trembles with the clap, clap, clap of those old weary teacher’s hands echoing across all eternity.

And I glance down.

And the chalk is gone.

And my old weary hands are clapping, slowly. Clap, clap, clap.

And glancing back up I recite what I know to the face sitting across a crackling campfire on a dark night at the far end of the Universe. And that face smiles back, out of the glinting world-wise glow of a mirror, shining in the warmth of a campfire.

And I look deeper, disapearing into that mirror's glow. And there, passing eyes, a moment glimpsed, fleeting, elbowed through a busy Shanghai turnstile crowd. And then the lock of eyes, and eternity.

Street Scenes, First Fridays, Florence, Alabama, June 2014 (or, "Folks Encountered on a busy street a few weeks before hitting the road for Mexico")

at a glance

in a glance

ships passing

in the night and

you pour your soul

across that space and

you are in love

And the image settles, sets, and crystalizes in the glinting surface of an ancient mirror. A face. Every face. And a purple haze, or an old crocheted pruple cap...

Street Scenes, First Fridays, Florence, Alabama, June 2014 (or, "Folks Encountered on a busy street a few weeks before hitting the road for Mexico")

CREATION! And I, not as a who but a where. Right here. What creation is up to at this point in the universal sea. And you, what creation is up to over there. And we, on a lonely night across the void, muttering truth to a wrinkled face in a mirror across a deep-night campfire.

Street Scenes, First Fridays, Florence, Alabama, June 2014 (or, "Folks Encountered on a busy street a few weeks before hitting the road for Mexico")

And more and more that face in the mirror is smiling back at me, out from every set of stranger's eyes. Out from every campfire-mirror-weary face of every being around me—eye meets eye and they know, they KNOW! And they are giving me a slow, slow nod and that emphatic clap, clap clap. And saying again and always “Ah, yes, my boy, finally now you are seeing it… In on it… as we all are in on it… It, in us… We, you, I, us, they, I... Masking up and putting on a spectacular cosmic drama, on stage, opening night—the only night—night eternal, where we sit and recite our story, trickling down through the ages, dark and dim, tumbling from our lips out across the loving glow of our very own campfire’s warmth, out across the void—we cross the void—and our words find a willing ear, a face, and a trembling figment of matter straining to a purpose. And it is always us. In the ancient, hallowed, worn and glowing warmth of a mirror, leaning lightly against the ancient, twisted trunk of a tree, there across from us at that cozy old campfire flame.

Street Scenes, First Fridays, Florence, Alabama, June 2014 (or, "Folks Encountered on a busy street a few weeks before hitting the road for Mexico")

Look. Gaze. Experience. Recite. Retell. And create. The story. Your, I, my, our, we, us, are us, in this story.

In our own cozy little campfire mirror.

Words. Echo. Into night.

(...and the old head nods and a car is packed in preperation for a roadtrip, south and west ahead of the rising sun, across the Rubicon, or is it the Rio Grande?)