Copyright 2010 Roberta Osborn. All rights reserved.
Dreams of the Borderland
Natural Order
I awake to find myself stretched out on a flat shelf overlooking the Grand Canyon, as though I
slept there overnight. The sky is brilliant blue, but the sun hasn't risen far yet and the air is cool.
The air smells of dew on dust and rock. I am completely comfortable and I look down into the
gorge with amazement and curiosity. The walls of the gorge are sheer and red, and end in little
floors of broken rock. The river runs there, soundless in the distance, swift and bright, twisting out
of sight. I peer up and down the river. I realize suddenly that my friend is there beside me. We
smile, enjoying each other. We are very happy to have such an immense vista. A vigorous breeze
whips up the
cliff and tosses
our hair around.
I joke about the
"windswept
look." As we
turn back to
gaze at the
chasm before
us, we find two
incredibly
beautiful
butterflies
hovering
motionless in
the air, just in
front of us, one
mostly spring
green with
sapphire blue
spots, one mostly sapphire blue, with spring green spots. These jewel-like creatures are perfectly
still, unmoved by the breeze, suspended in the air side-by-side. They display their beauty in an
important way, but silently, as if nothing needs to be said. I feel a deep sense of oneness with my
friend and my soul fills and overflows the canyon in all directions, to the ends of the earth.
I am talking to my neighbor as he tills the garden. It is a fine spring morning. I turn and find a
moth sitting in front of my nose on a fence post. It has wings that look exactly like the softest
white fur, as though someone has made a perfectly tailored 1-inch ermine cape for the little being
and draped it around its shoulders. This little creature is so stately it is as though someone has
magically turned a proud king into a moth--it can’t help but show itself to be every inch a majesty.
It has no ugly buggy features. Its white antenna are lacy and complex and unfurled in graceful
arches. It is not disturbed by my close inspection. I hold my breath in awe. I leave it alone in its
unrivaled perfection of form. I am reacquainted with beauty, the unspoken law of the universe.
I am in the office with a coworker. We are having a heated altercation. "It's obvious that you really
care about people, about how things are going for them," she says suddenly, breaking through
our irritation with each other. I am stunned. She has just given my lifetime of effort to love back to
me as a gift. I feel so understood by this observation that I vow to try to see the heart of everyone
around me clearly, so I can share it back to them. Later, she has complete certainty about our
response to the world's beauty—"Sure," she says, "it is our closest connection to what God is." I
realize that she knows what she is talking about, and I am doubly blessed by her earlier remarks.
I am in my little store in the Southwest. My shop is glass-walled and full of box-like stone
sculptures in desert colors, rust, and peach, and tan. They are stacked all around like building
blocks, and I tell some customers, "Well, no, they are not really for children, although kids
certainly like to play here." I watch the sunset from the center of the room. The sun on the
underside of the clouds blazes a fan of gold. I am content to wander amid my creations as the
changing light plays on them, creating new interpretations with my simple, solid forms. I realize
that being irritated with my failure to control life is like being irritated with the changing light for
what it does to my sculptures--the dimensions that are now possible enrich my work, and far
exceed the depth of my original intention.
I am shopping with my friend. We evaluate, pick up, and admire everything we see. We buy
socks. I comment about the uncertainty principle with respect to the location and momentum of
socks. My friend makes a comment about mathematical continuity with respect to one-piece jump
suits for infants, and we laugh and laugh.
