The suggestion is that we "give attention."
Christmas lights in the hay loft, a mirror ball dangling from its rafters, all reflected in glass bottles and crystals.
What makes you happy.
What happens when we deliberately accept the division of subject and object, observer and observed?
The neighbors bury miscarried fetuses in the little orchard abutting our property, marked first by candles which burn through the night, and then by small stone angels.
Definitions matter less than you think, same with explanations.
Driving through eastern Massachusetts to visit extended family, always a sense of trespassing on something alien and unwelcome.
Thank Christ for good therapists.
Writing in the morning waiting for Jack - the blind horse - to whinny for a flake of hay.
For example, one might give attention to the way the mountains look as the sun appears, or how dogs convey their joy in play.
The form of the lesson shifts, but learning continues.
"Stained with regret."
Ron Atkinson's work in the early seventies in Worthington so profoundly influential it is hard at times to breathe, thinking of him.
The gravestones of the poor, who are the only innocence, the only altar that matters.
Without fail, according to no plan, and yet always perfectly.
The flower - like the lake, like the star, like the bird's wing - always points towards Life itself, towards Love itself.
I too am nobody but Emily you are not nobody.
Sprigs of dried lilac.
Playing Greensleeves on Jeremiah's guitar, a little before midnight, the music easy and familiar, beautiful in ways that are easy to miss, like sex with a woman you have known a long time.
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