Some people call this "listening to the rain" or "contemplative prayer." Horses clear their throats in pre-dawn darkness. It's been a hot summer, a hard-to-breathe summer. And all the cars going too fast up Main Street, and all the trails on which ghost dogs run, looking for me in vain.
Pretty lights, broken vases. When in the darkness I kneel, then sag back against the hayloft wall, getting clear in ways that are felt as pain at first, the light of pure love being so unfamiliar, like a shot of whisky or slipping on ice.
Letting go of the whole dead dog fiasco. Priests we liked as a child who have found new careers, teaching in Boston, raising sheep in Arizona. There is an order from which we are not separate. Tomato seeds so rarely yield rose bushes! At night, low whir of fans in the dark bedroom, an ache somewhere that I cannot meet nor assuage.
How in my late thirties I tried to take up painting, found it oddly boring after a while, but still have some of the paintings around. That one snow storm through which you sat writing poems all night by a fire drinking brandy, regretting nothing. Hippie energy, commune energy. Happiness studies.
The love that we remember in relationship with the other is the love which we have extended them, which they are merely reflecting back. Going back in my mind to quartz rocks I did not remove from the earth but simply worshiped briefly in their place. Ray Lynch songs.
How can you be other than in reality? Being helpful matters, can we leave it at that please.