The Soup of Ordinary Days

Yearning is always opposite. It presumes that God's plan for salvation is insufficient. In the presence of longing, look within, for only there can the perception of lack be corrected.

The woodpecker manages a greening world without reference to gift. We watch geese circle the pond a little before seven, grateful to share the sacred continent, and laughing at how much their honking sounds like donkeys. Life is not ethical but only after we pass seriously and attentively through the phase of ethics can we know this without distress.

Scraps of birch bark on the trail here, mangled beer cans there, and close to the town line, the mascara ring of an old fire. The crow remains my confidant, urging me ever deeper into the forest, and reminding me that has truth has never disdaind a veil. Remember as well how the fox doubles back on itself, muddying the trail, all on behalf of sex and hunger.

Moonlight Sonata repeated until it enters the higher levels of consciousness, becoming a theme. A thousand raspberries that dream of entering pancake batter just for me! And this, forever this.

I beg for simpler times and receive instead a gift for attention to complexity. Resting on hay bales, kicking dust, we discussed clearing a few more acres of pasture, mostly happy to be talking again. An empty rocking chair in the bedroom corner signifying who.

Adjust your focus accordingly! After multiple drafts one realized there is no such thing as finished, at least not with writing, and possibly with nothing. A gratitude bath might be just the thing.

I am saying "what if" is not the helpful question anymore. I tend the soup of ordinary days, grateful for the company I have.