11:11 again.
I almost missed it—rapid scrolling,
morning ritual, catching up or taking a pulse
of the Collective on this blustery Tuesday morn,
filling yet another hour with what passes
for connection. But the numbers draw me,
hold me, as I scroll internally now
through memory.
Our first 11:11 celebration on Moloka‘i
nearly thirty years ago—people arriving
at our door in that tiny town, from places
we could hardly believe, even Kaua‘i,
as Hurricane Iniki had swept away so much
of their lives there. I must have placed
a small notice on a bulletin board
somewhere, and they followed that thread.
But they came; we came together, cooked,
laughed, hacked coconuts in the backyard—
people in tents, people we would never have met
otherwise—and have lost touch with all
but a few. That was the last celebration,
but not the last time we marked
that date and hour, that threshhold.
For a breath, the noise drops away—
and I remember: this portal has always been
in the now, this time of year especially,
when veils are thinnest,
stone doorways aligned to solstice,
eyes widening at the sound of beating wings,
the hush before entering the unknown.
Time folds, the veil quivers;
the invitation the same as it ever was:
look up, step through,
Be here.
Now is all there is.
Fire dance portal ~ bj 2018