The man without shoes sleeps well for once, waking two hours after sunrise, and studies his toes peeking out from violet sheets, wiggling like little dwarves doing a happy rumba because they were given a reprieve from dark and diamondless mines.
Preparation is holy but decision is the Mind of God.
What we want is what we are and we can only learn this by giving it away, thus the paradox that leaves us for the most part navigating circles and pretending that minor differentiations in circumference are meaningful.
Chickens make temporary homes in the lilac bush, and one notices the bumblebees are particularly energetic and plentiful.
Attention is what matters, and only this, and once one makes contact with that which directs attention, Heaven is no longer an abstraction, and it is this contact with which I am presently wrestling (in the nature of a drowning swimmer being rescued by an angel).
We are given children and dogs in order to learn what it means to love and let go, is perhaps one way to say it, though doubtless there are others.
Swatting mayflies and sipping lukewarm tea, one slips into gratefulness at dusk and it lasts and lasts and oh the sweetness, oh the yes.
Bear unto others what you most desire - forgiveness and love - and discover you are treading miracles in the swelling tides of God.
In other words, who cares what its name is?
I dreamed an enormous moose running away - it was the one whose trail I have been studying eight or nine days straight now - and I let him go happily, into the forest down a steep hill, and thus he is here, now, and you may see him too (if you close your eyes and forget about moose altogether).
Hillman advises us not to retrieve projection - or end it (the traditional therapeutic mode)- but rather to leap out after projection into the world they make so that we might at last learn something new or, failing that, something interesting.
First person singular is triply false indeed!
Catbirds - those ash-colored street fighters - brawl near the backyard goldenrod and watching them I think for no reason of toads and their complex relationship to movement (and realize that what is complex is the way I think about (and, really, write about) their relationship to movement - the actual relationship is natural and simple and accomplished without thought).
Salad splashed with rice vinegar, spicy peanut noodles, raw garlic and ginger, a banana, two kinds of tea, pepitas and cashews, one chunk of dark chocolate and popcorn with nutritional yeast on it.
Some secrets I disclose in the interest of inner peace but others seem to be in the nature of a code and thus I remain in a strained but not yet unnecessary relationship with various codebreakers.
Here is a writing exercise I try from time to time: write by hand the sentence that lies behind each sentence you've written (meaning the ones that you cannot as yet write) and then burn them while praying aloud for all lost and forsaken poets that they might somehow soon (with you) be delivered from the regrettable drudgery of wordiness and the narrative I.
Solitude is a nude beach is the only metaphor to which I can give assent just now.
He wrote "you use the word resonate a lot - too much" and I wrote back "Emily Dickinson declined the invitation to invest her snow."
First order, then simplicity, then gratefulness, and then no then but all.
Love me, love my umbrella.
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