Friday, August 2, 2013


The I that you believe you are will not withstand inquiry.

Sustained inquiry, pointed inquiry.

Yet it continues.

Something in us says no, let the pain continue.

And it does.

I write to her and tell her how cold the lake was yesterday.

The small bass flopping in shallows, feeding on Taiga Bluets.

We ate cantelope and pumpkin seeds on the shore.

Female mallards watched at a distance.

In yesterday's mail I received a dozen books, including several rare editions, a bibliophile's dream, a gift from a reader far away.

The news is mostly good I tell her.

I am surprised by the good that people can do.

Still surprised.

Before she left she told me to simplify my relationships.

And to do the one thing that God asked of me.

When you know the one thing, don't question the one thing, she said.

Make use of it.

The children liked her, even the shyest.

Especially the shyest.

And so I write happily, and my happiness shines, as if the sun were inside me, a star slowly emerging, its light for anyone who happens by.

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