Sunday, December 2, 2018
Given A Bowl of Soup
Rain falls at the beginning of December and I ponder again my lifelong difficulty with prayer. What is the fox in the far field if not a sign of my death in a previous life? And yet there are still those who can say with honesty that nothing is absent, including longing for the end of absence. How briefly the candle sputters then straightens when someone opens the door and early winter wind swirls briefly into the kitchen. We who opted for apartments made of books should not be surprised to discover that we are mostly made of stories. If you love me, don't read this sentence! So much just seems to happen but noticing what happens never changes, or so it seems. For a long time I was the man who, given a bowl of soup, gulped the steam and when the steam was gone (because the soup had cooled), believed he was fed because of something he'd done. All your accomplishments are belong to me sayeth the Lord. Here I am in a rocker by the window writing poems, and there you are in a rocker by the window writing poems, and are we not together the most perfect poustinia? A thousand miles apart and seven years gone, all in order to learn that her shoulders were made for the burdens you are only just now understanding are yours to carry.
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