Sunday, January 23, 2022

Willingness is a Form of Love

There was a fortune-teller once, and once there was a dog. The gray sky descends on the mountain and the mountain disappears. One walks a long time in order to remember that they do not actually have legs. Tell me again how the witch came to live in the forest?

We have beloveds, we are begotten, and beasties abound. One scratches the cover of an old book but declines to open it, knowing a bit about what happens when the text is revealed. Winter lightning. A particular sorrow, having to do with how the past is no longer with us yet retains causative power. Well, as it happens I don't believe in God - now what?

I remember digging for clams with my cousins, smoking cigarettes at low tide, happy in a way that eluded - even now - understanding. Wanting to save things, always. I know what it means for a crystal to be healing - can explain, can extend - but you have to care deeply about people in order to learn it, i.e., all willingness is a form of love, and love is always healing. How certain men carry their arms while walking, especially when they're old. All my grandmothers are good witches, all of them live now with the shades.

The letter was pictorial - a faint watercolor of a green feather - and smelled of lemon and something darker, sage perhaps, and one lingered in the reception of it a long time, wishing it had come to something else. Avoidance strategies. "Who was bearded was complicit" - who wrote that sentence all those years ago and why does he hate writing it now? "Stop being a baby" - as if babies could ever be anything other than pure.

Fox in the far field, far field in the mind. Who we miss and why.

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