The Violence of Apple-picking

To be still, yet I usher.

Morning arrives on mosquito wings as high-canopied canticles loft certain reminders that there is more to witness. With imperceptible ease, dawn crescendos into chipmunk chirps and blue jay squabbles and in-ground sprinklers and garage tools and barking dogs.

Before breakfast, the neighbor's power-washer reminds that some things are easier to forgive than others. As I prepare apple slices and hard boiled eggs, I mull over the idea of nonviolence. Some where along the line, some one must pick the apple and take a bite. Eve has a few things to say about that and so it is that I hear a sisterhood gathering.

On a walk just after sundown, I came up on four people lounging in ascending hammocks, layering between three faceless pine trees. They asked to pet the dog and climbed down to be with her. I thought about the dog-less hiker and moved on accordingly to pay homage down by the creek.

Homeward, we passed the house that burned over a month ago and I could still smell smoke. The windows are blackened by soot and the glaring police tape flaps a little in the cooling wafts of nightfall. A sifting of sorrows makes me wonder about my turn.

I still read Krishnamurti from time to time because of his pace of intention. Every description of his surroundings sharpens towards a fissure of light that I slip into with grace. Not so much a teacher now, but a priest of communion welcoming a few more to the table.

And as the wafer dissolves upon my tongue, I think about the love that exists as a dimension . . . a place beyond turmoil and mind and thought. It laughs at me and says: stop thinking! And I finally laugh backwards and say: okay!