A fine mist falling, like wanting more and refusing to awaken accordingly. Descendents of the backyard rose bush arise near the rhubarb and one senses eternity. Stories, always stories.
The familiar nudge of sleep, tea instead of coffee, and the same old reminder to "stop seeking." Self-inquiry means to go beyond what we've read or been told but it's so easy to substitute another's knowledge or experience for our own. Sweet scent of lilac and chickadees balanced on the clothesline and how happy one can be with such simplicity (and yet still insist on making it conditional).
What does it mean to "go beyond" anyway? Dickinson's poems first perceived as coins, then as notes to a place where you can spend them, and now what? You see, yes?
Bluets edge closer, whispering about a time to fall weeping. A green world once white in which shades of blue are always given more attention. Who tells stories only perceives stories and stories are always containers.
Guilt sensed as a roiling tide, a surf one refuses to visit, though it bangs all night in dreams. One night in April, so long ago . . . Hansel and Gretel are always being abandoned, always saving themselves (and the(ir) father) or else we wouldn't need to tell it over and over.
Lean into narrative and see what happens! Aurobindo's sentences are written by God's finger on the holy water. Holes in the screen - left by cats who long since crossed the bourn - let in mosquitoes.
Don't ask when for the answer is never not now. Almost is another form of no.
Post a Comment