East on the West River

Geese become tiny in a distant sky and crows hurry to their roost, like little black universes catching one's whole gaze. A pure frost in early morning hours seems like an unexpected windfall when the air becomes newly cold. Soon we will hasten to build fires, and we will cocoon for hours while listening to the growing darkness on the wind. Still, the sounds of autumn insects clack and clatter, despite newly angled shafts of light.

It is romantic to think of the sun and moon as lovers, dancing around something greater, giving and reflecting, warming and lifting. There is a peacefulness about that kind of story – an unmolested intensity of light with deep periods of rest – the untouchable given-ness of the promenade. We can make a gift of peace without these tales and dreams. Yet, because we do not understand the ones we need to gift, we believe peace itself to be elusive or not understandable.

Still yourself.
Watch the fire die down to white ash.
Find poetry which contains the silence, but is not itself silent.
The peace you seek comes through Love, as does justice.
And Love is beyond the myths, in between the worlds and words, after the translations of hand-made art.

I am newly in charge of myself which is not the same as being in charge of everyone else. No longer am I helpless facing east on the banks of the West River. The language of priests is callow compared to the profane love I have been shown. And this love, when allowed to make its own way, looks you straight in the eyes and says, “You were never not a gentle fisher of men.”

No longer do I need a tourist's map to make my way to the Mara. I never left. And neither did you.