Tuesday, March 25, 2014

A Happy Goat

Out back the snow remains stubbornly piled, crusty underfoot. Chickadees cross it gracefully. Transience is the destiny of the transient. Beyond that, who can say?

Well, I say, and all too often, cheerfully babbling like a brook that can't stop dreaming of the sea it will one day join. We pad around the house barefoot at night, taking temperatures, making tea, whispering reassurances. Your dreams are intelligent in a way that science is not. All I really know is how to walk attentively, the rest is just blather begging for attention.

It's possible I turned away from Jack Gilbert too quickly, was too defensive of Mary Oliver, and made too many allowances for Brautigan. On the other hand there is always another hand. For all my talk of sex and sacred silence, I'd probably just talk her ear off and then fall asleep, snoring and farting like a happy goat. Holiness is what you take with you and allow the fullness of God to enlighten.

Dreams of my grandfather walking up stone stairs. One longs for the old days, when men wore hats. How I love shopping for candles with you! One transitions from tea to coffee and it's like circling the Alps in a train.

So take heart, you who so easily surrender your heart, and stop pretending you still need a teacher. The cardinal is God's smile, as are pancakes with maple syrup and Canadian bacon on the side, at least two thirds of Bob Dylan's songs, the salt smell of the sea after a storm, and certain sentences. We go together, like Hinduism and nineteenth century New England! You shoeless dancer, you rose petal falling from on high.

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