Monday, February 2, 2015
The Dog to the North
Three a.m. or a bit earlier I lean on the shovel and smile, feeling temporarily clear and silent, precisely the way I didn't in those days of whiskey and lost women who welcomed me to their travels. What a storm in which to be so happy! Is it the end of confusion or something else entirely? When clearly what so long counted as error no longer does. You have to let go of everything, including the idea that you have to let go of everything. And yet I never get tired of saying it! Every snowflake seems to be possessed of its own wild desire, welcoming ecstatically that which it alights upon - shoulders, tree limbs, drifts of blowing snow. I hear the dog to the North, just past the barn, her tags ringing in the susurrating dark. This life is enough simply because it literally asks nothing of us. When we see this unconditional being - clearly, unequivocally, without writing anything else onto or into it - then peace does indeed flow exactly like a river. But you know this and you know you know this! So? Sew buttons! I push a little more snow into the rising banks, grateful for the dream of hot tea just beginning to emerge. Throw a little more water in the soup! There's no thin broth you can't enliven, just by coming around. As for me, I can't stop smiling, which makes me laugh. A real laugh - a belly laugh. Maybe you heard, all the way out in the forest. Even now - lifetimes later, a thousand lifetimes later - I am still only this acquiescence, this softening, I am this going nowhere alone.