Wednesday, February 5, 2014

A Gold Light Follows You

I walk when it is still dark. The wind comes up behind me on its way to the sea. It only seems like the owl is far away.

And the dog is a blur in darkness. And the brook sounds happy, as I am, against such crazy odds. Is that a star in the crabapple tree?

Where the hill crests, snow begins. The neighbor's lights come on and an eighteen wheeler grinds along 112. For now I am here.

For now I am writing. Chrisoula makes tea and we drink it together and later fall asleep, sharing a pillow. Bodies are nice - it's okay to say that.

Though earlier - days earlier - a cardinal watched me from inside an icy thicket - deeper in the forest than one usually sees them - and I wondered. Hawks hunt the chickens and so the chickens pay attention. A sliver of moon fallen on the road disappears into my pocket.

And the wind nestles through holes in my jacket. How relieved are the poor when they reach God's table! I laugh a little walking, thinking on what I have valued.

What a gold light follows you, saying I can rest at last! For reading Dickinson while you knit is finer than hot kisses.


  1. This made me smile...deeply...on the inside. It's okay to say most things.

  2. Is that even possible?

  3. I think it must be possible, however presently unimaginable . . . A Course in Miracles is very clear that all our secrets must be exhumed and raised to light . . . It is our secrets - hidden even from ourselves - that make us vulnerable to attack and, I think, sustain the illusion that we are powerless in terms of salvation. But that is not to say that we should go around saying every thing on our minds to everyone! I think it is more in the nature of an internal awareness . . . though helpful friends are nice :)

  4. Yes....and necessary.

    Thanks, helpful friend, for the explanation. :)

  5. Your 20 sentences these days sound gentler, somehow, as if there's been a slight internal shift.

    Reading them is lovely....thank you for sharing

  6. For a shift? Or something else.....

    I'm beginning to think hope gets in the way.

  7. I think of hope as a wave - like desire, like anger, like happiness - , problematic only when we pretend it's separate from the cosmic sea from which it arises and into which it returns.

    I know, I know . . . Zen sh*t . . .

  8. It's as though it all comes from behind and we move with it, isn't it?

    I like how you described that, very much.

    And I wish I could feel Emily Dickinson's poetry with the same heart you do, Sean.