Recovered writing (remember that). I woke to fog and snow, a perceived simultaneity that for some reason spawned a peace that lasted - so far - close to ten hours. Later, kneeling on the zafu, grateful for the many flaws - here and elsewhere - of which I am aware.
Our trip to the New York shrines was helpful though it took many months to see that. That chipmunk darting around the church's cool interior made me happy. Messages abound because we wouldn't have it any other way.
I don't recall what gift I gave which perhaps explains our current confusion. She disappeared and only sometimes returns to say hello. Lilac in winter breaks the leathery heart.
"You are introspective" the student said, the way one would say to a butterfly, "your wings are colorful and I am curious." What we find interesting finds us first. In some ways, I am never not standing by the river, astounded by the way light is everywhere and seems to move.
Past and future are stubborn illusions indeed! And yet, we really only need to question them. Answers are never as satisfying as we hope they will be, though Thoreau certainly gave it a good effort.
Your respiratory problems - and the astounding reference to a performance of Macbeth now three decades old - inspired the best conversation of the evening. She closed her eyes while listening to music, I remember that for darn sure. And dreamed a happy dream?
This: what is broken is not real. Oh and this too: what is real can never break.
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