The Focus
by Jonathan Quince
Sunday, May 22, 2005 19:41:06
The warmth of his breath broke the cool pre-dawn stillness as he reached the mountain peak; liquid frost issued forth from his lips, melting away to become dew for a new day’s good morning. Tendrils of chill air teased the heat of his skin, tantalizing muscles fresh from a climb with the promise of warm daylight soon to come. He sat down upon an enormous mountain rock, challenging its hardness with his, nestling comfortably into the textures of a face weather-beaten for time older than history; and the living creatures of that habitat did witness a statue sitting carved upon the stone, a figure seated utterly motionless but for the pulse at his neck and the slow, measured rhythm of his breath in his chest.
Looking out to the eastern horizon, he waited; as stars faded from the sky and greyness swept the world, he counted and enjoyed each precious moment, savoring the time of a new day in the making.
The world turned beneath him; and as if for an artwork meant for his eyes alone, the horizon bloomed with colors, Light’s trumpet silently shining to announce the coming of the Sun.
Brilliance swept the sky and bathed the world at his feet. He became one with the rock, with the mountain, with the Earth herself as he watched and felt and drank of the brilliance, imbibing such nourishment as bread for his spirit. Bowing in his will before the glory of Nature, he opened himself to be touched by it; and thusly, thereby, was he gifted to touch the sacred and sublime.
In the moment, he was purified.
As the light melted and melded and turned to gold—as the sun broke the horizon with the glare of its fiery visage, declaring by its presence that a new day had arrived—he meditated upon the light, and he was certain of what he must do. He stood, rising from the rock in one swift, silent motion, and turned, walking down toward the door of his workshop.