The sunflowers adjust their lean according to the solar prerogative but still don't grow.
Calls are made but go unanswered.
One walks all morning only to learn the mail is not sorted and will not be until lunch.
Our lives unfold or flow - there is a sense of movement - and we remove ourselves from it in order to comment.
She urges me to write more.
"Silence is not your mode."
Yet I long for the deep quiet and rise early to walk through it, always sad when it is time to begin speaking.
She insists that difficulties are always of our own making for what is God yearns only to be known and offers itself accordingly.
I know it and I know I know it but still.
The study of resistance will not end resistance but it may reveal the futility of study.
The kids come by asking for help with a camera.
I put the book down and we discover the problem and solve it together.
To thank me, they take pictures of the gourd plant, always the most beloved.
They know my teacher's name and practice saying it, the awkward syllables tripping off their young tongues.
What would she say about this, they ask.
Their desire to learn is tangible.
It is not separate from the recognition of their capacity to love which goes before words.
One of her students - who handles her correspondence - sends me a photograph and tells me my letters are most welcome and very articulate.
I drink tea as the sun rises higher and higher, burning away what I cannot see and so remain burdened by.
Chickadees come by, then mourning doves, all staying just long enough to feed their hunger and then going on, to where I cannot say.
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