The terms remain unclear, as terms generally do. Food equals love, fatigue equals devotion. There is a morning in Spring when all the rivers are in full spate and you hear them rushing even miles away. Where the trail ends I hesitate, surprised at how many lights are on in the village. Well, we turn back, we go home.
Farm workers of the world unite! One waits a long time for the mail and it’s a good thing, a necessary thing. To your body, chairs and cheesecake and sex-while-exhausted will always be real. Meanwhile, the inner lamp burns cheerfully, and the so-called dead attend our lessons, urging us on. Special texts abound.
One remembers certain students and appreciates now their confusion. At 4 a.m. geese pass overhead, as dim as ash sprinkled at a distance. In a way, there is no such thing as a stranger. The organist wakes up, worried her arthritis will confound the Easter hymns. Welcome back Kotter, welcome back Jesus.
I nearly fell again, trying to skip on the ice. How much work remains and yet – seen another way – what else is left to do? What is the value of vulnerability? The last desire – to be held, to be savored, to be lifted as high as the body can lift – is truly the hardest. Or so I think in the early hours, writing writing, and thinking of all my loves, here and there, wordy and otherwise.