Like Wind, Like Moth Wings, Like Dust

Two days running now with a slight fever and all the rest of it. Brassy sunrise and rain clouds dim my bedroom prisms. Yet another life spent clutching at delight.

Yesterday a cedar waxwing rested briefly on the baby pine I will plant in a few weeks and I remembered Robert Francis' fine poem and read it again, glad for the company. Who isn't with us is with us is thin gruel for those of us lost in the body's lusty welter. The tea grows cold while I write.

There are so many ways to be lonely and only one way to be found! Don't confuse the multiplicity of Brahman with the essential unity of Brahman. It's a way of seeing I'd like to share with you in order to better learn it myself.

Yesterday I watched a bear fumble in the snow on the far side of the pond and bowed to her even thought it was silly (but not too silly). I tell myself I won't see Paris again but of course I said that twenty years ago too and look what happened. Smoke tangled in slow-brightening skies makes me happy, as do squirrels running along the fence, as does denim that faded while you wore it.

One longs to fill a sentence with buffaloes and does but knows instantly they'll have to do it again. Bounty is library visits on Saturday. How I hate not leaving bed!

Resolve to know choiceless awareness and accept no substitute (of which there are many). We come upon old cellar holes, dig around for nails a couple centuries old, talk about the nature of loam. We are all  blossoming, ascending spirals home.

Writing clears a way. Love's offer floats and settles, here and there, always impersonal, like wind, like moth wings, like dust.