I think Heaven is being any age you want with the person you are at most ease with in the places you most desire with the best of weather you can imagine and the ability to appreciate it to the fullest.

(Offically shortest posting of this blog)

Rising from sleep.
Becoming awake. Awareness, the great creature of silent perception comes from the dark abyss of sleep, where it languishes in the compression of the deep. It ascends. Bubbles of random memories, thoughts, hopes, and reflections trail in it's move towards the surface. Shafts of light infused with sound and color thrust down through the surface to guide and entice.
We sit on the edge of the bed. We have surfaced, still, the waters of sleep are drying on us.
Awareness. We look around for a millisecond as if reborn to a new world and in a blink have been enveloped by the familiar. A song replays in our mind. It is the song of yesterday connecting today. The tides of sleep wash against us as if beckoning us back. The song is stronger and the begins to drone like the great machine.
It is the song of the Gandy Dancers who straighten the tracks of desire, of compliance and direction.

Some listen and dance. Some Dance and ignore the song. Some sing their own song to dance to. Some just live the song of life.

Fleecy blankets of coastal overcast. Lumbering feather bed pillows pretending to be clouds shower the flat lands. High buttermilk skies.
Even a contrail can stifle the Sun light if only for a moment. Some cities are tucked in under the blankets for most of the year seems to be only stretching, yawning but never really waking up.
An illusion of cloud cover?
Sleepy in Seattle?
Driving the summer hyways under blistering Sun we look for that bit of shade a passing cloud can provide. It becomes a respite as if only, in that instant of shade, we can collect our thoughts and breath a sigh of relief.
Walking the streets of Ketchikan, Alaska or under the lower 48 summer storm skies, there are always blue skies at thirty thousand feet.

Warm sultry days when the Warlords of great dark clouds move our way.
They turn the heads of playing children and bustling adults. Even the birds seem to feel what is coming in the air.
Thunder and lightning rumble in the distance.
Dry grass and thirsty trees almost shiver in anticipation.
We may stand at an open window and feel the breeze of the coming storm.
We may be sitting out with friends or on our way to an appointment.
Then we smell the air. That smell of rain coming.
The first fat drops hit with the sound that rings deep in our memory. A sound of fat drop hitting the flour dry dirt, the hard hot concrete, the tin roof of a shed, or the top of an awning.
The smell of a Summer Rain is the sound of life.

Memories are grist for the mill stone of the heart.

The landscape of the early dutch coast. Windmills moving sentinels on flat fields claimed from the sea. Turning, pushed by sea breeze filling turning sails on ships that never leave. Inside the heart of the windmill are the wood gears moving the great mill stones. Grinding harvest into flour to feed and sustain.
The harvest becoming grist for the mill.
We, like windmills. are moving from the capricious winds of time and our harvest of experiences become grist for the millstones of the heart.
Sometimes grinding, sometimes crushing,always changing to make the flour.
Flour, like the product of our living in the wind, becomes the base, the foundation for nourishment.

In the fields of a reclaimed land, wind blowing, we hold the grain of life. And we see the grain will pass through the millstone of the heart and nourish us.

The millstone of the heart is the telling passage.