At noon pockets of Watts Brook emerge from beneath tuffets of snow and I make notes for later. Fionnghuala points out a hawk and only after watching a few moments do I say - both in joy and amazement - "that's a golden eagle, honey." We track its broad arc not speaking until it's swallowed up, of view.
In my dream, Emily Dickinson's headstone radiates a thousand times a thousand shades of blue and gold, and I sit quietly crying in the luminous benison. Roadside maples age faster because of salt. We pause at the crab apple tree - take note of deer tracks in punky snow near its roots - and I resist the urge to kick down the realtor's sign fifty yards away. Fuck all commodification.
An abundance of prayer (broadly defined) heals many wounds, including the one that prohibits our acceptance of Love. We slip down the forest hill to get closer to the old stone walls in search of chipmunk tracks but it's too icy - the snow too crumbly - to find any. Ascending a woman's voice home. Not for the last time do I walk these trails wishing you - yes, you - walked beside me.
Mornings given now to choiceless awareness, the Gift expanding naturally into afternoon and beyond. Yesterday I watched a deer watch me across the river and felt again the related engines of hunger and fear. Always question survival.
More sunlight confuses dinner preparation and I find myself rushing to bake sweet potato fries, dress a chicken, roll out naan. Once we figure out - and, critically, accept - that nothing is happening to us that is not happening to everyone else, our separation from God is ended. How enticing - still! - the Heaven below.
Body as bluet, body as prism is just another method. C's note - unexpected and thus intimate - rendered the morning an old if familiar joy. We went all the way to M's farm - watched Herefords plod patiently through not-quite-mud-yet - and came home with our coats off, watched over by Turtle and his old effulgent shell.
I loved this!ReplyDelete
Every line spoke to me.
This in particular:
"Once we figure out – and, critically, accept – that nothing is happening to us that is not happening to everyone else, our separation from God is ended."
And this, of course:
"Fuck all commodification." (even though I got the gist of it, I confess to looking it up).
I'm reading (or starting to) The Moneyless Manifesto by Mark Boyle. Have you heard of it?
Thanks, Cheryl . . .ReplyDelete
I haven't heard of that book. What is it/what do you think?
Wow. That is great stuff - thank you so much for sharing it. I spent an hour with it yesterday (hard to read online - may need to buy the book). Very much where my thinking is and longs to go these days. I agree - the organic "oneness," the sense of we're not separate and here is a sane way to manifest it . . . gratitude abounds!
Hope you're well -
You are very welcome.
I have to tell you, I wasn't certain where the author was going with this concept and was both surprised and delighted as I continued reading.
For some reason, it made me think of moving from rural PA to suburban Virginia and wondering why everyone was so enamored with having yards that resembled golf courses. Such a waste of energy and resources. I remember my neighbor's lawn service rep approaching me one day (gazing at my expanse of clover, dandelions, and whatever birds had dropped or the wind had blown in) and asking if I wouldn't like to have a beautiful lawn, too. When I asked if I would still have earthworms, the conversation pretty much ground to a halt.
We have been so seduced to value form over content, that we've forgotten your question (one that seems to have become mine now) ... What is it for?
Would love to hear more of your thoughts as you continue reading.
Have a great weekend.
I love Pennsylvania - always felt like if I wasn't going to be a New Englander, that's where I'd go. I had an uncle who lived in Reading. I remember how beautiful it was driving through the state to get there.ReplyDelete
Suburban lawns are a drag! And bad for the environment, too.
I'll keep you posted on my reading of it - spring break this week so I've got time to read, though midterms to grade, a bathroom to paint and so forth . . .
You have a good weekend, too