First, the itinerant carpenter with thaumaturgical impulses. We resist commensality and thus feel excluded. What is the same cannot be different, that is the nature of our fear of sacrifice. The phone call – at the other end of which an old Greek woman sounded mildly annoyed – came from a New York monastery. I am all “over the place” these days.
I am angry, too, which complicates the morning prayer. Would you walk past starving babies to get to the perfect yoga studio? The politic body is ever being addressed. Any definition of wealth other than “freedom from wants” is wrong. Thus you see how I conflate the many confusions that compose me.
Yet some grace stays possible, even as the dog struggles to walk, even as the neighbors grumble about fallen tree limbs, even as the bank account dwindles. We forget the degree to which a pine tree can bless. Consider healing as something other than the cure. The finger one mistook for the moon now taps one's shoulder, ever unwilling to be forgotten. In the distance, coyotes, and in the body, a chill.
One forgets their pen and so the page remains blank. It is hard to solve time when you need time to do it! The closer I get to those twentieth century men exploring a distinctly Vedantic Christianity, the more I feel I am getting closer to something. There is virtue in repetition once you understand it as a mode of insistence. Why do I believe I have to end here?