Nothing Else

How do we carry out our solitary work?  How do we live in just one body, be in just one place, with so much wild possibility spread out before us, urging us to leave our withered husks behind and investigate the effervescent.

Where is the cat curled on the hearth?  The mother, the rising voice of her bread finding its way from oven to counter, the father with watering eyes and handkerchief, the children with their tiny toes, guarded by shepherds until deemed self-sufficient.  Gone from here, you and I to follow – what else?

The silky flesh of an avocado for nourishment, a blushing apricot for astonishment, hot tea for purification.  A trio of stocky, red-breasted robins eat a breakfast of insects in the rain, knowing nothing of coats, hats or umbrellas. Is there anything else?

No small town sitting with hands folded in its lap, where change is slow to occur, where it’s easy to listen and record what is heard. No vast city arching its back, inviting temptation. No slender valley sitting in the sun, rubbing its feet together like two lamps containing dormant genies.

Nothing to miss out on, nothing else, nothing to do, blind in one eye and deaf in the other.

May we carry out our solitary work, be of some use.

 

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