Inside the insides. I drive slowly through the city at seven a.m., wondering what any of it’s for, lonely in the way I am sometimes lonely, when I cannot easily find answers nor one who will help me search. Snow falls, turns to rain, the sun comes out, nothing is new ever.
Therefore Heaven does not include colors, much less favorites. The hayloft reeks of skunk, less bothersome than it used to be. As far back as I can remember, this craving to possess what was fun, beautiful, interesting, et cetera.
Holiness does nothing, merely is. Men walk by, some of them carrying familiar burdens. That hill in Vermont on which I realized I was not going to become Buddhist ever, and so resolved to better understand and follow Christ, and the life that thereby followed, this one.
Writing is a form of play, also has more in common with math than a lot of people realize. Kissed three women in Ireland, only one of whom was Irish. Hank Williams letting go in the back seat, Lord let your poor son rest.
Control shift a. Long hours driving back and forth, Vermont to Massachusetts, I-91 a well-worn track in my soul. The Divine Turtle of Cosmic Understanding and Oneness has a thing for resting in the sun, napping on logs, there’s a lesson in that.
This new distance, this new silence. Chickadees carol as the dark fades, sunlight breaking where hills meet beside the river. Joy is brief these days, a tender bafflement more the norm.
Rosary prayers in late winter dedicated to world peace, why not. Angels pushing the ark all night, a dove resting on it at dawn, the rest of us letting something vital slip away, a shadow under the currents that will get to us later.
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