Sheets

I had to drive slowly on my way to work this morning due to sheet after sheet of opaque fog. During my commute a memory came to me of the clean sheets hanging on my mother's clothes line. I remembered bright sunlight, and the display of light streaming between the sheets hanging in the sun, and remembered how the light came through the sheets, too. And I remember feeling the impulse to move into it – straight through the sheets, and as I came near I noticed the freshness, the airy fragrance, and then feeling the moist or dry and stiff fabric on my arms, and the sliding of the sheet over me, so close, touching my face and hair, blinding me until it fell from my head, exposing yet another sheet, and another, until the last one. And then, I would turn around, and move through them again.

The morning memory turned into an image of veils, filmy veils, hanging over us. When we see the light coming through we cannot discern intricacies or fine details. When these veils fall, when they drift slowly over our faces and expose the world to us in all its grandeur, a feeling of exuberating exultation ensues. I just want to breathe in this freshness, and to feel this delicate texture on my face. There is a sort of beauty in the translucency of the veils, and there is anticipation in the mystery, in the hope that clear and starry skies have always been there, waiting for you. Feeling a veil fall, however, is freedom.