Fifty degrees breaks a fast, unlocking the appetites of spring for a moment. Yet, after only two days of balmy reprieve, it feels like a betrayal when wind slips past one's jacket and under the shirt. Sleety fingernails screech down the bedroom window and I stare at it – waiting in the same place for a different result. Or though it seems, just before February.
But next week, the greenhouse work. I register the juxtaposition of two seasons separated by a thin, plastic sheet. The next morning, winter's new lace has me dressing for a church I can never refuse. But in the greenhouse, dirt and humidity. When clumsy snow melts off the vented roof, awareness of winter's parallel universe breaches what is. Every day is a greenhouse day, in that, one can always be pulled from one moment into another, aware of resistance and comfort and things that cannot be sutured, even for logic's sake.
Do you love when you are not in love? Are elements missing from the room? A sunrise meditation unhinges the soul from the imaginings of the body, and it all begins to coalesce or brim or swim in the essence of a secret. And we who meet in this secret follow the trail back to our very first poem, the first inkling of the honorable scandal contained within all of life. We take the path in order to be liberated from the destination. That is it!
So to stay at the beginning, through memory and longing, is to be mired by the end. For a freer now, it is better to be aware of worlds coming into one another, weaving new variations on love.
with me –
the shy joy