We are cloud gazers and want to remain so forever. There is no more heavenly image of the glory of God than sunlight singing with the clouds at twilight. Our souls, wrapped tenderly, expand and breathe towards their archetype. From this side and the other, the soul and the archetype gently touch—golden-born. But storm clouds rolling blue-dark across the sky are also grand. With a dramatic flair, like in the movies, the sun gives them a glowing border. Or the grey masses of a November day, almost worn through in places, but only almost. Dimly, they cover us and give us a glimpse of hidden light.
It is never the same interplay. In the sameness of the elements, something never seen before arises again and again—familiar, and yet for the first time at the moment of realization. As if clouds were telling the story of a moment, an event. Warmth, water, air, and light sculpt and dynamize themselves in the sky. We gaze. Ships sail, intangible and without boundaries. A ghost ring becomes a dog’s head, becomes a rider without a right arm. Eternally roaming—like a consciousness that appears briefly and then vanishes again.
What essence lies hidden in the movements and shapes of clouds? Or to put it another way: What part of our being vibrates and awakens when we observe clouds?
Translation Laura Liska
Photo Ali Abdul Rahman
