Thursday, June 11, 2020

My Life has been Wasted

In the hay loft a little after 7 p.m., last of the rain falling from hemlocks in which sunlight - last of the day's sunlight - brightens arching limbs. Have I told you how I love you, and how confused I am by this love? Mahfouz says that home is where all our attempts to escape cease but what about that to which we turn - that which we chase - over and over, year after year? Horses cry out in the distance, lambs bawl in the mud. As a child I told a lot of stories, and lost the ability to discern between them, and most of my life has been wasted accordingly. Even in your arms I am simply the idea of wanting understanding. Now and then you realize that silence as such is gone, replaced by thoughts about silence and, when they are briefly stilled, a ringing in the ears. Ever attended by angels, ever hounded by demons, all of them working together for the Lord. I pull my body out of one position, ease it into another, and write. Empty coffee mugs are my witness: I have no plans, no price, no prayer. Between one pause and the next, the Lord visits and gently reminds me He never said "suffer," never said "die." 

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