God's Word is the quiet of ice which yesterday was melting but today no longer.
The cardinal at rest in a snowy hemlock, twenty feet away.
And chickens fluffing against bitter cold.
One reads certain books but avoids others.
In a similar way, I am unsettled by the division of time into measureable segments, which of course reflects the deeper confusion of what I am in truth.
At night I dream of foxes running in moonlight, the rust-colored flair of their tails leaving faint crescents on the snow.
At dawn I carry an ax to the barn to break ice in the horse trough.
When we are cold we are apt to think we have always been cold and will always be cold.
One works in darkness, word by word, coming at last to belief, and then realizing it is essential to keep going.
Joaquin sent me a picture of a hammock strung on a cross and Jesus - a distinctly European Jesus - reclining inside it, very peaceful, very content.
K. writes to say - in essence - oh just wake up already.
My boots are very old and snow creeps in and melts and my heels are numb after every walk and when will I be ready to not be the man without shoes?
The man without shoes dreams of Ohio and points west and of keeping on.
And the cardinal comes to the feeder, and the deer grow very still and quiet.
It is the tea candles I light when I pray before dawn, and the little rainbows shimmering on the walls when the sun rises and I am sitting happily after, thinking nothing in particular.
Lately I drink tea with Chrisoula, the two of us sitting together in the shadowy dining room, working out what it means to set terms and conditions on what is, in the end, unconditional and immeasureable.
A few leaves on the maple tree near the brook quiver and rustle - practically orchestral - despite the absence of perceptible wind.
Late, but not too late, I am learning how to face the love I fear.
And thus She visits, and this writing it is for Her, and me as well, being not quite ready for the mapless world.
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