The trail lightens as I go, slower and slower in the cold, willing the internal transformation. Sky hidden behind pine boughs, bird song perceived as colorful arches slung between, north to south. Beer cans near the pond, also fresh shotgun shells. In a sense, north comes to us. Activity, says one of my teachers, is subordinate to action.
And so I walk and walk and make my prayer and give attention to thought and to what goes without measurement. Snow slips into my boots and melts but then grows frigid against my heels, making me limp. Birch trees scar and darken the older they get. Poor but blessed means making notes for later but not always sharing them. Tea after we know the sun is rising for certain is best.
Though last night stepping out at midnight into the field to stand dizzy beneath spiraling stars one wondered if any light need ever do anything else. How, for example, do stars at noon harmonize with the sun? Blood knows the moon long before any you does. C. came in after to hold me, smelling faintly of lilac and honey, and much was said without the frail travois of words. I mean, sleep getting less so all the time.
Or so he writes, being as always outside the relevant church, tending to its gardens and watching bees drowse in the phlox. Seen a certain way, no road leads anywhere while seen another, they all lead to the same interior clearing. The deer steadied herself after leaping then leaned gently forward, softly whispery and gifting. Thus the world, that way. Yet it always unfolds like this: briefly I recognize Truth only to lose it through pursuit, the flawed activity of possession.
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