I see things as imbued with meaning, like fragments written in a foreign language. Sometimes I can decipher them; sometimes even put them in English. For instance, from my bedroom window I can see the Victorian factory opposite. I wake as the early sun catches its gable ends. As on a sun-dial, it moves rapidly down the walls . . .
For weeks I’ve been waiting for a book to arrive from the States. I once had a book of Eckhart’s writings. I think I bought it in 1971. It had an orange and yellow cover. I couldn’t remember the title or publisher, and couldn’t see it illustrated anywhere on the Web, so in the end I settled for a volume on sale at a penny, plus standard Amazon postage. When the parcel came yesterday, I discovered it was the same book, the one I’d owned and loved but neglected and lost; the same book whose distinctive cover I’d retained in memory. It can’t surely be the actual copy I once possessed, but it’s as good as. As I revisit its pages, the content seems to reach me without effort, as if I’m finally ready to absorb it, just as plants serenely take in sunlight via photosynthesis. Reunion with an old friend; rebuilding from within—happy coincidence. Or a call answered.