The Hand and the Glove (thirty two reasons)

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[R.A. Robertson]

It's the perfect fifth, and the diminished fifth.
It's the touch of a hummingbird's tongue on the nectary of a trumpet vine.
It's the light through the glass, light on lace curtains, and the filigreed shadow on the bed.
It's the curve of the red meniscus in the wine glass.
It's the aroma of Spring and the decay of Autumn leaves.
It's the basketball in the net, never having touched the rim.
It's the molecular murmurs of receptors and ligands, lock and key (like you and me).
It's the unmoving mouth whose echo still drums the ear.
It's the lactescent fog in the valley, and the islands of penetrating peaks above.
It's the substance of matter manifesting as holes in space.
It's the chambers and gateways of the heart, and the frenzied day-trader exchange inside the lungs.
It's warm sun and cool air.
It's the surprise when yellow curry meets avocado.
It's the river's explication of sine, and the lonely oxbow lake that gets left behind.
It's your reflection in the pupil of another's eye.
It's the moment when a glacier calves and hangs suspended in space, just before the green sea's Platonic surface is broken.
It's the cloud's crepuscular fingers probing the interstices of skyscrapers, and the unseeing traffic below.
It's the sound the telephone makes when you pick up an instant too late (but not the dial tone).
It's the dovetail, the lap, the mortice and tenon, and (oh!) the tongue and groove.
It's the happy gerrymandering jigsaw of horse-herb in the lawn.
It's the heartbreaking beauty of Jerusalem geography.
It's all that's implied by the smell of white glue and a #2 pencil.
It's the impression on a mattress in an empty room.
It's the whispered secrets between sub-atomic particles, and laughter in the bar over beer, three blocks away.
It's the hollow where owls live and how it matches the shape of missing memories.
It's the sense of perfect closure when the conductor's baton is first raised.
It's the distance between what the mother feels and what the infant feels as the head crowns.
... and what the father feels.
It's the quilling conduits of transmission, from Lascaux to CERN.
It's the voices of the dead and the presence of ghosts in the unified, un-superstitious mind.
It's the stillness of dishes in the sink, awaiting the water that awaits my hands, that await my awakening.
It's the one in whom I exist.February 1, 2011
Ross Robertson
Still Point Aikido Systems
Honmatsu Aikido
Austin TX, USA

www.stillpointaikido.com (http://www.stillpointaikido.com)
www.rariora.org/writing/articles (http://www.rariora.org/writing/articles)

[piyush.kumar]

Divinity?

[grondahl]

Does the sun shine out of our behinds?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72ahybE_dCI

[guest1234567]

It is the fluid and confident connection between tori and uke in a perfect throw without thinking.

[oisin bourke]

Does the sun shine out of our behinds?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72ahybE_dCI

Another Smiths fan on Aikiweb! Yay!

[Katie Parsoneault]

Congratulations on completing thirty-two years of exploring aiki. Your metaphors are apt, and as solid and empty together stir the universe, they are also the essence of your art. Rei ...

[niall]

Thanks Ross. Nice images. Good title too. Nikyo = a glove on uke's hand.

[Tony Wagstaffe]

It's the thought of what you do when you have run out of toilet paper......:hypno:

[C. David Henderson]

With all due respect Tony, this comment is beyond the pale and wholly disrespectful. It frankly should embarass you, as it does you discredit as a martial artist and person.