Like the First Morning

Morning breaks and suddenly it's Cat Stevens hymns all the way down. Frost glitters in this attention and I'm here for it. It has been weeks since we have been able to strip ourselves of the despotic gray belt. Today is a naked day.

Lately, more exploration of myth. Lessons from the Greeks abound, yet neither the Greeks nor the myths explain anything to you. Instead, they deepen, tantalize, provoke and confuse in order to take one beyond that which can be explained. Myth hints at the eternal and it will not be co-opted by church or state because myth isn't only in words or song. Myth is in the actual soil from which all things consumable emanate. Myth is in the living – the storm and sky – the blackbird singing like the first bird.

Woodpeckers have begun their mating drum. The rolling sounds like staccato breathing high above the tree crown. On the dawn walk, the smell of fertility and new beginnings cuts through biting cold to sting the eyes.

All in one month, K's young daughter has brain surgery, her father breaks his leg, has a heart attack in rehab, and begins his death fall. Her mother passes away unexpectedly and now K. walks around her parent's empty house in her mom's house slippers. She feeds Janet, the stray cat her mom fed on the sly, and drinks the only alcohol she can find in the fridge, a Bud Light Seltzer.

Meanwhile, rainbows dance around my entire room while I meditate in complete peace. This world isn't at all what it seems and I'm not really sure what to do about it.

The answer is Love and so is the question. At least this much I know.