How tired I am of all fathers! A robin comes to rest on the bare maple limb outside the window, its marigold breast bright with sun, and writing begins. "Everything is connected," says the man for whom shoes are always somewhere else, often lost, hard to get, et cetera. Shall we compare pancake recipes, you and I?
Stepping outside at dawn to piss off the back porch, urine thrumming where in spring the tiger lilies will sprout then arch in unison east. A skilled liar is a kind of truth-teller. One wakes early in physical discomfort which by nine a.m. has given rise to a full-fledged emotional crisis. Whatever you can't put into words may yet be put into words.
Wait! Sometimes the writing becomes unsustainable in terms of psychological tenor. Late snow softens in the horse pasture, blurring with mud. There is something crows know that you don't, and there is a juncture in life where you know that you don't know it, and that is when holiness as such becomes possible.
One sifts through ash in search of bread. Attention is a) subject to discipline and b) possessed of its own intelligence and care: this was a nontrivial insight in 201? and possibly the greatest gift you gave me. The nexus between Jane Austen and Wordsworth (and Wordsworth still mostly undiscovered). Perhaps there is virtue in dithering?
Do not trust what you think! For example, two days ago I wrote three thousand words about my father that a day later I realized was fiction, and it scared the hell out of me. Bone broth with cauliflower and sausage sprinkled with pepper. Sipping moonlight from my grandmother's porcelain tea cup again, hoping you will do the same, where ever you are.