It was Saturday long ago, and I was thinking about long-dead dogs, and the way that Christmas carols have affected how I think about Jesus.
Coming down the hill on Route 143 in the 1970s, a million stars floating in the darkness itself floating high overhead, just grazing the line of distant hills I did not then consider either distant or an impediment.
Ways in which we are antagonists.
Shaking angels in her, loving how the light in her changes, letting it be hers then mine then ours, and being saved thusly.
Driving to Burgy, parking on the north side of 143, and wading through banks of snow to reach the land my father gave me.
Little brooks pushing through mounds of fallen snow which if you kneel and gaze into are decorated with sky and towering pine trees.
As if kissing her one day were actually a choice.
Morning passes writing.
Jesus going out into the desert, and how that narrative image integrates into a broader narrative of consequence and salvation, and how two thousand years later I understand being lonely and inquisitive differently accordingly.
How happy John Lennon was from time to time!
Drinking again in the basement, whiskey like water, painting furiously, and when Chrisoula comes down to say in a scared voice "please stop," not knowing how to stop and so going deep into the forest before dawn to cry out for help in the voice that God has never not heard and being heard and being held, being helped.
Saying goodbye in hospitals.
A dim light the day after Solstice, a sort of softness that feels unwelcome, as if my heart were trying to reach me across a great distance, one that I am not yet ready to stop insisting on.
What falls apart does not actually but the dogs are still dead, their graves still asking me to come and rake them, come and kneel and pray to the bones beneath them, so . . .
Always pointing at Worthington, any Worthington.
My love the question is not who we choose nor why we choose them but rather how we choose, which reflects our deeper understanding that choice is an illusion, nothing can be lost, and all that can be given us was given us forever in Creation.
Heart as compass, soul as map, gut as weary traveler.
Healers who stay, healers who leave, healers who as yet are waiting in the dark beyond the our small fire's reach.
All this happened in a happy dream, a long time ago.
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