Tuesday, May 26, 2015
The world is not gentle. How many times can I say it? The old dog will no longer enter the forest so we sit together in the side yard before dawn, waiting on the light. Bluets and stars, fireflies and mail. That which arises in the body comes and goes and nothing is ever enough. How terrified I have always been of hunger! Yet Being is not contained by the body, a fact recoverable only after one relinquishes the inclination to learn and improve and become. Then, between rain drops, a chickadee can be heard, and later in Watts Brook, a pair of beavers glide slowly away at dusk. What never left must be here, as what was Given is forever giving. The fear you feel as the Kingdom reveals itself was predicted, and you need only let it pass. I go slowly through our days, folding blankets and baking bread, as wordy as helpfulness requires. We did not make the wind, nor the trees through which it flows, but what joy to give attention thereby! Quarter moon at twilight, lilac florets falling. Can you hear it now, the whispered yes?