Jul 9, 2012
—Calvin Luther Martin, PhD (Autumn 2002)
Low on the northern horizon, a faint white light forming. Even as the night unfolds, this light forms. Amid myriad stars. There is no moon. Pleiades dance in the east, seven—I count seven.
Black except there, on the northern horizon, low: faint white light gathers itself. “Now it ripples, now it murmurs, ripples, it sighs, hums” (Quiche Maya, “Popol Vuh”). Constellations wheel slowly, night sinks into darkness. The light grows, glows brighter, sending silent fingers arching across the sky to the very dome of heaven. Then—ripples. Huge cosmic ripples. The aurora comes alive, flowing into the vault of heaven, sending long jets, volleys of light. Rippling, discharging, immense. White, green, some red. Half the night a shimmering tissue of light—jets, streams of cosmic matter.
All this above this mountain pond this autumn night. Loons call—a rippling. Barred owls growl and scream, echoing strangely through spruce forests.
Was it this way at the beginning of creation? The Maya say it was; the wise men, they say, remembered and wrote it down. “Whatever might be is simply not there: only murmurs, ripples, in the dark, in the night.”
This autumn night I witness creation again.