A World Without Maps

I'd forgotten about moonlight, pale striations up and down the trail, the forest moving towards you as you move through it, all as if in a dream. Chastened by wind in fickle March, frost thickening on the door. The dog slows and looks back, asking if it's necessary and for once I concede. Tea beckons, helpfully.

The multiplicity of Brahman is not an argument against the unity of Brahman. God present in flakes of snow, ever urging us to greater awareness. One day I too will want to turn back from the long walks, the harder trails and who will say yes, it's okay, I love you? In order to find room to write I have to move drums, polyhedral dice, a quilt in progress, a basket of laundry and about two dozen paperbacks ranging from Calvin & Hobbes to Catching Fire to a nineteenth century Shaker cookbook (a gift from Chrisoula) that shouldn't be out but is.

Eschew prayer to write! And make the writing the prayer. Is one way to say it and so I do but really, who knows. The heater rumbles in the basement and the dog curls up on the couch, confused that I'm not on the zafu, but not unhappy.

In my dreams, marriage, and in the marriage an ideal of service, and how light and happy I was to at last be thinking only of others. Is that the answer because if it is I've always known it and even had a couple of great teachers. One strays toward the Light and finds it is everywhere, always. A thousand lifetimes thusly disciplined.

It was a world without maps until I began to read E.D. closely. Nothing ends and there are no answers! Head tucked, snow in my boots, nothing on my mind but the first cup of tea, black and scalding, gratefully swallowed. Slowly one perceives the nature of clutching and so lets go, steps back open and the blessing proceeds to oh . . .