For we have gone to the well, and we have drunk from there what is offered there, and we are humbled before the Lord accordingly.
Smoking cigarettes while the train idled in the Italian countryside, struck by the heat and the clarity, the hills rising as if made of rust, and the low bushes on them a grim reminder we live by the grace of others.
Trout rising, sylvan and lovely, from the river all the way into the sky, starlight pouring down all around us.
I do not know me the way others do.
Wedding bands. For whom do we sell the whole ship and turn away forever from the sea, pretending to be content with so little.
Rain spit. Emily Dickinson's use of capital letters, the bridge Jonathan Edwards is, and Robert Penn Warren's studied insistence on suffering.
Analysis is a form of masking. The story you tell is also telling you, which is very hard to see in a sustained way, and yet seeing it so is what liberates us unto the country of joy and peace.
She leads me home to the Country of Turtles, where there is nothing left to do, and nobody needs to be saved.
Something clear and true was established by Socrates and David Bohm, and it has to with how we talk and with whom, and everything you write either serves this something or is at war with this something, and service is always the better way to end this particular conflict.
My story has finally become a story of salvation, rag-tag and roughshod, more luck than discipline, more gift than intent, and yet.
Any desire to convert the other is a form of violence against love. Turn, turn to the rain and the wind.
God is that which is tirelessly present, ever sustaining us in the moment's luminous heart. Love forever seeks a way to work it out together.
Look at her in the far field, this witness unto holiness too long ignored.
Passing geese passing rain clouds in a life that at last need not flee from itself.
Om shanti shanti shanti, amen.
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