Unfolding

I write to you from within a constrained world. Caring for my elderly, injured mother, thinking only of the next task, I make phone calls and listen for her stirring in the night. What do I have to do with the world of presidents and wars? I dimly recall the Strait of Hormuz as I fill my gas tank and worry about Medicare coverage. There was a spot on Stumphole Bridge Road where long ago (last week?) the world opened up. Wide farmland stretching up to misted hills, folding and folding and folding into the horizon. I am the cosmos unfolding along purposeful, hidden paths. It is my small, bright secret. Like the woman and her coin, I sometimes lose track of it. I’ve swept the floor and lit a lamp. I’ve just caught a glimmer in the corner of my eye.