Monday, November 15, 2021

Miracles Appear as an Interim

Against nearly black storm clouds a single gull turns gracefully in hard winds, its body pure white, so of course I mistake it for an angel.

Dozens of flags rippling in the same wind, currents that are somehow reminiscent of melodies.

Acceptance is the answer to all my problems because acceptance is a form of love suitable to my current ideas about suffering.

And time passes, or seems to, and the Holy Instant of A Course in Miracles appears as an interim, a brief reminder, a stay against the horse tides of fear.

What happened when in high school I discovered the poems - not the songs but the poems - of Jim Morrison.

Ways in which loss appears permanent, not as a feature of living but as the condition of living itself.

Stars sailing through the sky half an hour before the rain begins.

Going outside to piss on the little garden by the back stairs, the dead stalks of tiger lilies and the already-rotting maple leaves bunched around their base.

At what point - both in time and place - do we enter the earth?

Before the wedding we placed two ceramic turtles in the church - secretly, telling nobody - going back later to gather them, certain we had done something pleasing unto the Lord, about whom we were both about to enter into separate decades-long and painful relationships.

At last I am able to face the silence - which is a form of order, which is a form of love, all I am able at this juncture to manage - to which I am called and - at least to this juncture - unable to accept. 

How I am in love with forests, especially as they intersect with rivers and streams, the soft slope of hills and the tidal excitation of mountains.

A distance at which differentiation - male or female, for example - becomes obvious, less obvious, et cetera.

What it takes for us to say "I am what I am" without rancor or drama, as gentle as snow falling on pine trees on a planet which nobody has visited.

Fifteen blackbirds baked in a pie.

The silver splash each drop of rain makes upon reaching the pavement, prisms dissipating without remembering light.

Living now the struggle - the interior quagmire, the darkening swale - of wishing to bring only joy to one's enemies.

We are confused who insist on echoes.

In a field are seven hemlock trees, beneath which deer graze, and beyond which a narrow seam of forest knits earth to sky, calling it a horizon.

Was alone once, am not now.

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