Sometimes the way is marked by little yellow flowers. Not often - but now - I question the twenty sentences, and they always respond that they are not twenty sentences, but something else. People change, or seem to, and so love must not be only that which is shared between bodies. Half moon visible between shifting branches of summer maple trees is all the delight I need. Well, also summer bull thistle, which the dog sniffs as we pass, and seems to glow when the sun rises.
Question habit or else. And give attention now to what arises, and also to the words "arises" and "arisings," both of which may help undo the stubborn self forever insisting on gain. Emily Dickinson's snow remains instructive. We are forever volunteers? J. and I stop near Watts Brook to watch trout jump at dusk, lovely silver plashes in the soft-sinking light.
Preparation mars the otherwise perfect present. The kids and I spend the afternoon cloud-busting, and later at night hold sparklers against the sky. There is nothing to seek but there is a lot release! Chrisoula wakens me because of coydogs howling, a pack of them out near the beaver pond, and she worries about deer, fawns in particular, and we sit quietly on the porch holding hands until the yelping fades, unaccompanied by death shrieks. Not everything I want - or profess to be grateful for - is necessary, which is a hard but requisite lesson.
If and when the time comes, gentleness matters most. How far one's childhood recedes without ever actually disappearing! Imagine a world in which you are not. Study that which cannot be sold. Morning arises, nothing passes, and we are infused with the Love that was Love before Jesus said "I am the way."
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