Sunday, April 14, 2013

A Sort Of Compass

There was a softness to the sky this morning. Little lights - more like little clouds - seemed to sift down from it and float along beside me. The trees were quiet, as if pleased with a season of creaking. When the dog scuffed to cover her piss, the noise made me start. How can you not name the stars?

Contemplation and service is the mode. The gift is not for speech, but for knowing speech's limits. I was reminded yesterday of the hermitage at Agape House a few towns over, and how D. joked with me one time there was more sex in it than any other place on the property. We don't want what we think we want. That which is external (that which we long for) can function - at best - as a sort of compass, directing us to inner peace.

In other words, nobody has to do anything but pay super close attention and be grateful! The Shaker cook book (a surprise gift from C.) provided hours of reading at bedtime. What did men like me do when they weren't allowed to work in the herb garden and write poems? And yet what I wouldn't do for Mother Ann Lee, those eyes . . . Thank you for elevating my literary poverty to riches, if only by association.

The coffee boils, the old cat staggers into my shins. Twenty years ago I saved him from death in a now-forgotten city and he's never not said thank you, in a deep and sustained way. The Easter candy from my parents gathers dust as usual. Tell me it's okay to write for you still. We hang by a thread, we figure it out.

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