Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Unfamiliar Wildflowers

A trail of ailments is no way to be needed, though one's pant legs do grow damp in the meadow while scouring for unfamiliar wildflowers. "Take me with you" only works if you believe there's somewhere to go. Turkey vultures are plentiful and yesterday a falcon took a mourning dove from the feeder, a sorrow only if one insists on taking sides, which hunger never does. Sooner or later, fertilizer, and sooner or later the nothing we cannot imagine, which is the everything we long for. Bibles burn the same way dictionaries do and summer beach reading as well. It's all fuel so far as the fire can tell. Bouquets fill the house, reducing patrimony to finding and cleaning any empty vessel. Cut stems encountered in odd places, batted there by cats. Her art is vivid and the only thing that quietens her, while the other daughter takes to her room to work on fiction that she no longer shares with me. The tape measure does nothing really, but it's probably a mistake to say that tools are neutral. One does cherish the diner-like coffee mug, myriad Mason jars, and certain ceramic candle holders made by old women in Greece just after the war. The world is not given to us multiple times in multiple ways but only once and this is sufficient to encounter the divine - the desired - stillness. On the other hand, it is nice to eat ice cream while watching television and think about what might happen when she comes to bed. It is not an error to consider the other, even to make the other the object of one's adoration and service, but it is still necessary to be alert to the "me" that roils below the surface, a deep tide of sacrifice and possessiveness that obfuscates our otherwise natural lovingkindness. The peonies lean and lean and one's study of support intensifies, one's gratitude for stakes and grounds in which to place them enunciates its boundlessness, and thus the lovelily blossoms continue their sunward, their lightward climb. Like that, kind of, and for now.


  1. It's all fuel to the fire . . .

    Today is my first birthday as an orphan and for the first time it has struck me how odd that I was born on Flag Day . . . patriotism now seen as both a club and a cell . . . well, I guess, it depends on how you hold it . . .

    You sound . . . the same, yet different these days . . .Sean. Tell me, have you stepped outside the coil of self?

    I'm headed home tomorrow to tie up my mother's estate. To spend time with my gun-toting brother who wants to debate my reasons for how I have come to believe what I believe . . .

    Anyway. . . that is that, I guess. Thanks, as always, for your words. There is always a sentence (or two) that finds its home in a necessary space.


    1. Happy Birthday, Cheryl . . . Thank you as always for reading . . . It sounds like the estate-tying won't be fun . . . strange how we leave and yet how much remains behind . . . I know you'll be okay, more than okay, will find traces of your mother & light in your brother, because that's just how you roll . . . the crack through which the light spills never escapes you . . . thanks for being here . . .