It is about patterns.
They are everywhere, and they make up the fabric of our lives.
Indeed, they make up the fabric of the
Universe.
Without patterns, there is
nothing but chaos, and chaos means death.
If there is a definition for “evil,” it must be chaos—complete disorder
and disruption and loss of the precious patterns.
Without order, there can be no life, for life
follows a very certain set of strict rules and patterns, and it never deviates
from these rules and patterns.
Never.
They are fundamental to growth, and growth is
life.
There are many patterns that are easily identifiable
because they are complex and present elaborate evidence to our eyes. Who could deny the stunning beauty and order
of a spiral seashell, the head of a sunflower, or the deep red color of a
cardinal’s feathers? Their order and
discipline speak to the secret part of our soul that craves union with Final Form,
the part of us that longs for the Archetypical world. But that’s easy. Anyone can spot that if they open their eyes
because patterns bring pleasure, whether they are seen or felt.
 |
| The signature of the wind. |
Yet there is another pattern, one much subtler and older. I noticed it many years ago when smiling at
the willy-nilly dandelions as they peppered the field here and there in the
early spring, spattering the landscape with brilliant yellow light. He who cannot smile from this sight is poor,
indeed. The simple yellow color
meandered around, now here and there, now thick and thin, and then almost
absent, only to show up again in rich abundance.
And I realized that I was looking at the wind. It was the first time I had ever seen the
wind. Up until then, I had only felt it
or heard it, but I had never seen it with my own eyes. Here, then, was proof of the wind. For who spread those dandelion seeds in the
field in their strange and complex pattern but the wind? Who dashed now left and right, high and low,
bare and thick but the wind? The wind
had taken hold of those tiny, feathery little seeds and placed them precisely
where they ought to be, as if they were a signature saying, “I am the
Wind. I was here. This is my work.”
This is what I believed for years, and every spring I
would look for evidence of the wind from the year before and its indelible mark
on the field. But one day it occurred to
me that the wind was just a tool being used, for the wind is just one of many
forces that disseminates the Master Pattern.
The Great Alchemist reaches out His hand and commands the almost chaotic
wind, and out of chaos comes order, out of nothing comes something. Out of a tiny seed, inert and dead-appearing,
springs forth the plant with the pattern of the flower imprinted on its
soul. Not unlike the Universe at all, as
it springs forward and reveals the Hand that commands the pattern—the whole
being greater than the sum of its parts.
We are all dandelions in a field, after all.
