Are you out there?
Are you okay?
Good night then.
Are you out there?
Are you okay?
Good night then.
So there is the dog, the cat, the table and chair, books, photographs, keepsakes. The peel of an onion and a bit of parsley on a wooden cutting board. There is the hedgehog-like orange studded with cloves, the calendar on the wall, each week’s same seven days named after the planets of our milky galaxy. There is each day, this day, the only day, ever always and once again setting this task before you: break open your heart. Do your work, and let it be a work in progress. Let there be no fixed course.
There are the organs working their magic inside of you, the longed-for renunciation of all your desires. There is the routine each day, to some the subject of fervent dedication. And yet the routine exists within the construct of an erratic life whose days are lived out in a world ruled by impermanence.
There is Nature, the greatest teacher. Here are the qualities that show us how to live in this world. Here is the music to be revered, the architecture to be contemplated. Let it be softly observed, gently noticed. Not studied wildly like some mad scientist yearning for discovery.
Friends who I have left behind, friends I’ve not yet come to know,
these drops of rain upon the hill come likewise to the valley,
to beat against your doors, streak your windowpanes,
set aglow your lighted lamps.
Return now to your visionary dream, song of your heart’s voice.
Return now to your body, at once solid and transparent.
Return now to the music in every prism at the end of every string
held loosely by the fingers of every wide-eyed child.
These are not the days of old maps and heavy leather-bound tomes,
gold fabric of late afternoon unsheathed, only to be slid back into a scabbard of mist,
clearing the way for a midnight sky of shattered crystal and baby’s breath.
These are days of cold mumbling rivers that know secrets,
cabins in the mountains, their wood beams rotting too slowly for us to see.
While walking in the morning I digest this vastness, this solitude,
this gravity that presses against the muscles around the eyes.
Friends, I toss myself aside for you. I become available for you.
I eat, drink, run hands through hair for you,
scramble up the gully for you,
carry wood, fold socks, scrub pots, ever-fearless, requiring nothing.
These are days of time’s inhalation
pulling way up under the world’s collarbones,
stitching together the fibers of memory and intention.
These are days of emptying the mind, distilling the essence.
What does it matter if the world hears your voice?
We all belong to each other. Your voice is here, mine is here,
as great, small, and equal in worth as any other.
The voice is in your heart and so the world’s heart knows it,
as surely as you know the heart of the world.
The line is cast before the coming of a great fish,
a sudden tug is felt through our hands
and our withered husks give rise to something new.
How can one sleep with a moon like this? It’s so early it’s not even early, it’s late. I mean early, you’re not up yet, not awake yet, slurps of hot liquid with eyes closed, fan of the mind humming, oscillating between two levels of consciousness, tendons shortened, digestive organs finishing up their work.
Ten-thousand pinpricks of light still glimmer overhead, and you’re already out walking.
Hormones have been secreting, cells have been forming in your bone marrow, the liver is a tireless magician, the sublime workhorse of your heart has been laying low, half-drunk old man in a hammock. And, like a gathering wind in the distance, love rises.
It rises above lies and dictations, the sound of the mind. It rises above the texture of your words, the swirling ether of your thoughts. It blows among the thistles, it blows through your whole life.
A love so impossibly vast, unbearable its confinement.
To better understand nature you need to spend some time in it alone, observing. The more you do this, the more quietly aware you’ll become of what is happening there – the order, science, art, survival.
The same applies to one’s body and mind, habits, tendencies, perpetual states, thoughts that come and go, emotions that change and pass. The solid and fluid. The blurry and congruent. The daily weather report of moods.
The next time a storm comes, set your eyes upon a tree. The branches toss and turn, flail and bend – and wisely so, for what happens to things that don’t bend?
But then, beneath the boughs and limbs, the trunk. And beneath that pillar of power and stability, the roots – firmly fixed to the earth.
Meanwhile, the wind blows, incredibly. The sun rises – seen or unseen – and moves across the sky, incredibly. Water covers most of the planet. Effervescent laughter is remembered. The vast silence of the world helps quiet the noise of your mind. The great emptiness fills you up and calms your heart. Do not be too eaten up by your own life.