Snow flies and I walk through it slowly, thinking in lines instead of sentences. Wind pocks my ears with little nails and skates on cold blades down the back of my neck. These are not kisses. These are not soft hands, offering wordlessly in darkness what sometimes shows the light.
And yet an hour later - filling the feeder, clearing snow around it - I spy a cardinal in the neighbor's sprawling leafless lilac, and so practice my imitation of his short sharp song. Inside are eggs fried in the same pan as ham steak and onions, and toasted bread with mountains of butter spilling with jam. Not for the last time do I wonder what a blueberry feels when it is pulled from the bush. Well, we are all in motion - I mean folding and unfolding - one way or the other.
And the morning's writing unfolds in both lines and sentences. And my shoulders fold inward, aching after shoveling. I drink too much coffee, which makes me wordy but breathless, and everybody laughs. Later yet, toppling through dizzy prayers, I think of Tara Singh and the challenge of accepting - of meeting - one's worthiness.
D. calls and asks will we walk his dog because his knees hurt because of the storm, and so we send S. over, and she comes back with two bottles of yeasty home brew as thanks and flushed cheeks. Briefly I smell roses. My dreams were filled with images of birds - paintings, sculptures, words and so forth. One hour after waking a crow surprises me by asking why I am always so surprised.
Well I am, and that's how it goes, at least for now. Amends here, requests for clarity there and always the familiar act of translating (poorly or otherwise) what is learned accordingly. Chrisoula leans against me in the kitchen at noon and asks will I make her chapatis with black beans and plantains fried in oil and crushed tomatoes with cumin on top. Oh yes, I say to her, oh yes yes yes.