I love the crescent moon so perfectly situate in the dawn sky and my love for it is God's love for me and the two are not separate.
We all learn to pray and prayer - like loving in darkness, like soft kisses fumbling - is intimate and cannot be reduced to ritual. It cannot be repeated.
And we stopped where the trail was thinnest and crumbling and made contact briefly with silence.
For what is perceived as external is internal but disowned and Truth in communication is contingent on this fact.
The dog waits patiently by the little brook. The little brook sings following the hill down to the larger but still unnamed brook which goes underground in Tyler's field two miles that way. Yes, "sings."
We love in others what lies in us untended.
All attention teaches us is that we have everything but remain attached to the idea that we don't. Thus beauty, thus coincidence, thus hunger.
How scared we are! And yet - paradoxically - how open to learning the way to love (the secret is to give - not pay - attention).
The stars I see are the stars you see, and the thought I hold of you is the thought you hold of me, and that is not love but simply mind obeying the laws of creation which it did not make but nevertheless honors.
The new teacher insists I play guitar more, so I do, and it is like falling through folds of green and violet taffeta, and each chord is a silken glove that facilitates walking sticks, and vistas open and maps are offered.
And the chickadees come as the sun rises and I welcome them, and my welcome is the same greeting I extend to God, and my happiness - which I cannot hold the way I cannot hold a river - is God's reply.
How fructive the mind when given to its natural mode! How thusly!
And yesterday's snow flakes, and T. storming away angry, and a burlap-colored mouse watching me from atop the cracked corn.
And this and that, and you and me, and so on and so forth and all.
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