Ciclo CLIII

The light this morning came through the window at such an angle that the dust in the air became visible — each particle turning, suspended, neither rising nor falling, as if the air itself had paused to consider what it was holding. I watched one grain for what might have been a long time. It moved not as a stone moves, not as water moves, but as something between — belonging to neither the earth nor the sky, content to be carried. Così siamo, perhaps. Not the dust, no — the watching. The mind that follows a thing so small and calls it worthy of attention. I do not know what grace is, but I think it may look like this: the willingness to be arrested by what has no consequence.