Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

21 February 2010

sunday morning.

quiet darkness speaking through us jagged rocks residue of mustard gas through morning Dresden up and across the wasteland we turn toward and away and toward again the sound of water running and a guitar.  he makes saffron rice with pistachio, gentle curry with portobello and yogurt from Toms, sweet milky earl grey and grapefruit and nan.  something playing quietly behind it all, we watch the Raven hoard peanuts, Fat Squirrel digging in the snow.  the kitten skitters.  it is late february and we wonder at the weaving of Love and Time that affords us this morning that will slip into the afternoon the moment i leave him going back to what has been and will never be and toward the time of no long leavetaking, counting the days.

DFWs birthday and i cry into a rag with him sitting witness to the storms. non judgement non invasive just Steady Quiet Presence, all ive ever wanted.  This is the sanctuary my whole life has been a search for.  this is what i did not die to live.  something as fragile as Life and fierce as Time.  we eat mint ice cream out of tiny glass cups.  how completely am i fed.  how tended my wound we both know will never heal and its okay.   

the roads of Dresden are shifting and conceal toxic pockets, sharp hungry edges.  but with his hand in mine i stop and look up into the open sky we both look up into the sky standing in the rubble and waste and waiting and we breathe.  we walk.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Blessed Be.

"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well."

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)