deep breath

in 1577 Saint Teresa of Avila wrote "The Interior Castle" about her ongoing vision of the seven-layered, seven-skinned, seven-walled abode of the soul whose interior everyone must traverse. The difficult journey is the inward one, to reach oneself.

Two other castles I glimpsed this week, exhibiting unmistakable architectures:

This past Saturday, a poppy - an accomplished, professional flower. Means business. Sets up shop sturdily. Evidences its intention of burst in penile flower bulb - then eruption of petals so resolute they read plastic - temporarily wrinkled from deep compression. A world zeroing in on the black black center, startling and ornate, so much dark ring on ring, the center of an infinitely florid shameless pink.

Then this morning, a blues song on the radio. The singers starts with the talking blues, telling a story about the song as the chords progress, wind around, begin their loop again, as he finishes the story, the chords deliver me, descend me precisely, drop me on twanging wings right to the foot of, to the doorstep of, over the mote to the drawbridge of the castle wrought of nothing, of everything, a castle of rhythm and tone: to the inner courtyard, the meadow, infinitely large, infinitely inside the song. The first chorus begins - I am in.