Thursday, March 12, 2020
The Sharp Shock of the Cut
The full moon hidden behind gusting wind or is it my hunched shoulders make it hard to look up. In winter the river is quieter and one can imagine a space in which the river does not sing at all. What questions must I consider, what answers must I set aside. Lorenzo Snow said that "as man is, God once was, and as God is, man may become." Grating ginger for tea I drift and drag my forefinger over the blade, blood leaping into awareness right behind the sharp shock of the cut. Yet in the morning, some wind still abides, so I gather loose hay behind the barn where it's less likely to blow away. One does lean towards rituals that are fairly described as Christian, yet eschews so much else of what the label implies. One avoids the dance in order to study the band and, by extension, learn better where one's own healing work is compromised. Be careful of measuring progress simply by comparing present to past, lest you confuse any amble for a direct stroll. The icicles are nearly gone despite the cold and one briefly allows a dream of green and bluets and forget-me-nots. Aquarians are only sometimes excellent lovers? My heart circles an invisible God, a hummingbird of mind, a temple whose doors refuse to be locked.
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