Our Rounding Dance

The deep quiet of winter morning – a resonance billowing like the folds of a rose warming to sunlight. It is the only time with enough solitude to be generative these days. I am on my knees for it. This and nothing else.

My reflection in the window pane seems foreign. She looks beyond form out into December and sees what exactly? Everything is an example of what she created or is in the process of becoming. One thing has become sharply clear: separation is learned. What do you think?

Teacher says
be good to each other
be God to each other

beyond that, I can't really find the footing to head in any direction in particular.

They said they would need to move the septic tank from the front to the back yard, directly under my garden. When awareness is allowed in every situation, it is astounding to see how many times doubt and fear come between you and your intentions and desires. Can I respond to emotional pain with trust? No more plans can be made, with the exception of planning for the unexpected. Maybe put on some Dylan and track sunlight across the floorboards for a few hours. Maybe sit with the dog who wants nothing more than to know you are with her.

The moon glares on a crystalline, winter night and a lone dervish leaf skitters across an empty side street. Anything illumined by moonlight seems as slick as glass – even a midnight kiss – even the words of Christ. All these images behave as Kachinas, presenting us a chance to see everything with new eyes. We are in a rounding dance, our circles widening outward, again like the rose, expanding what we remember and forget.