The heart as a suitcase, carrying the things we have packed ourselves.
For so many years, it has seemed that she bent to hear the center of her chest saying: this one or that one or none or all or yes or no or we shall see. And then later, down another path, one dappled with flickering marigold, the universe said: there is no she to hear the heart and there is no heart apart from every heart of every universe of every everything. Who is this one who is unassimilable?
Cold ginger peach tea because I am a sipper. In the grid of slanted light growing across tired floorboards up onto the arm of the couch, the last of the leaves finish act one of the shadow play. How October lacks subtlety. One must shuffle through scattering leaves to get anywhere these days. No sweetener for me, please.
Supramental consciousness. Can't we all just get along? Contrasted truths cannot be real, yet they add to the creativity of Oneness. Even winter is pursued by unity! I am tired of withholding, my love.
Colder now, the dog and I still walk. If unleashed, she would go further and further, not looking back until she had gone too far. The man on NPR said that the inside of a beehive smells like musty butterscotch due mainly to the influence of goldenrod. Lately I mouth crystalized honey in the fashion of communion wafers from the old days, but I am neither prodigal or Thomas. Maybe I am just a common sparrow eating whatever is left for me.
Lately, that familiar siren call to retreat. The calendar's permission is withheld and I am a sullen teenager brooding in the dark about it. Which heart is not yet filled to capacity?
The wind makes a fuss but the sun is full and bright and pouring down all over dancing decay. I must finish the tea and walk the bones as far off the porch as my world will allow.